


the sun will come up, the seasons will change

by mosaicofhearts



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Background Relationships, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, Gen, Introspection, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, POV Richie Tozier, Pining, Slow Burn, Stanley Uris Lives, The Losers Club Are Good Friends (IT)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 80,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24361672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosaicofhearts/pseuds/mosaicofhearts
Summary: He opens his mouth to speak again, and this time Richie doesn’t beat him to it. He’s expecting himself to say something like ‘no, nothing, I’m good’ or ‘I just needed to talk to a friend’ or even something more alarmingly honest like ‘I woke up and I really just wanted to hear your voice’.Instead, he says: “I think I need to get out of New York.”He realises immediately that he means it; that it’s the truth. The revelation drops like a stone between them in the ensuing silence, laden with honesty.- - -Or the one where Eddie returns to New York after Derry but doesn't stay, and Richie deals with the consequences of living with the person he secretly loves.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 67
Kudos: 471





	1. the sun will come up

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this consistently for the last week and a half, and i'm so glad to be able to get it out finally! this was really intended as a one shot, but the rich text formatting isn't playing ball, so... two chapters for the price of one!
> 
> i hope you enjoy reading as much as i have enjoyed writing.
> 
> huge thanks to [sabi](https://twitter.com/sabisuns) for reading this over and being a generally wonderful human being!
> 
> the title is from a song by nina nesbitt which isn't relevant, but the imagery of this line i think ties in nicely with the story :')
> 
> as always, i would love to hear your feedback!

Mornings are always the best part of Eddie’s day. 

He’s been an early riser since before he can remember, appreciating the stillness of the dawn as night begins to bleed into day. Even in a city like New York that proclaims to never sleep, there’s a certain tranquility to the early hours, the city more at peace than it is in the deep dead of the night when the streets hum a steady beat, filled with those who only emerge with the shadows. He’s not one of those people.

His alarm is set for 6:00 am every day, the shrill chimes ringing out into the empty apartment that isn’t quite his and likely never will be. He never misses the alarm or oversleeps. The routine of it is important to him, something he’s long since recognised and is _okay_ with. Usually, he runs before he does anything else (save for brushing his teeth, always eager to chase away the stale taste of the night from his mouth), preferring to run on an empty stomach that hungers for something other than food, and with a clear mind on top of that. The latter is hit and miss. Sometimes he wakes with his mind hollowed out; mostly though, he wakes with an angry hornets nest settled in his brain, thoughts swarming and stinging.

Central Park is his favourite destination at this time of the morning. It’s quiet before the rush of the afternoon, the only other people dotted around being those who are of the same mindset as he is; they run, they acknowledge one another with a brief inclination of heads or a short smile, but they keep themselves to themselves. 

It’s easy to get lost in a place like this, surrounded by the lush greenery that is not often equated with New York city. Not that Eddie ever actually _gets lost_. His sense of direction has always been impeccable, from navigating them around the dirty, winding passages of the sewers of Derry, to trekking his way around the city with nothing but his GPS and a ZIP code. Often, he thinks it would be nice to actually be able to get lost; just to disappear amongst the trees with the scent of cedar on his taste buds. But he has neither the head nor the heart for it.

He can ‘get lost’ in the sense that he knows where to hide if he doesn’t want to happen across others, especially in places like this. There’s the usual circuits, the ones that everyone traverses because they are well known and familiar. Then there’s the less obvious and less traveled; courses concealed in the depths of the forestry, shrouded and more treacherous to follow. He’s become skilled at finding these all over the city, where he knows he won’t be found unless he wants to be. Over the last few years of his life, he’s noticed himself returning to these places more than ever. Searching for the solitude despite the suffocating loneliness of his life.

It’s almost comical, knowing what he knows now. The memories that have resurfaced often feel like they belong to someone else, even though he knows that they are his, even though he knows that he is the one to have lived them. It’s difficult to identify the person he was back then -- a young boy who had friends whom he cared for so deeply -- to who he is now. A man who hasn’t really connected with anyone in his life the way he knows he connected -- _connects_ \-- with the losers. It’s a sobering cognizance.

His whole life has been altered since that one phone call. It feels like the beginning of something. It feels like it could be his creation.

He still hasn’t been able to decide whether it’s a good thing or not.

On this morning, Eddie wakes up a full hour and a half before his alarm is set to ring. It’s a bad omen if ever he knew one. In fifteen years, give or take, he cannot remember the last time that he’s woken up before his alarm naturally (he doesn’t call those times he’s jolted from the throes of a night terror _natural_ ); the last time that he didn’t get the full recommended eight hours of sleep. Or, he can -- but that was a month ago now, and it was justified, given the sudden onslaught of memories that had hit him like a train going 190 mph. 

Oh, and the reappearance of the clown that had almost killed him and his friends on multiple occasions when they were kids, and then came back for round two, twenty seven years later. 

That broken slumber was entirely justified. Only a tranquilizer could have made him sleep that night.

This, though? This doesn’t feel justified.

It’s still pitched dark outside, the ether inky and starless. Rivers of moonlight cast dancing shadows over the room where they’ve been able to permeate the gaps in the blinds, bathing everything they touch in incandescent silver. It should be soothing, he thinks, even as a shiver travels unrepentantly down his spine. He spreads his hands over the seven hundred thread count sheets Egyptian cotton on his bed, letting his eyes flicker over to the alarm clock that he knows has to be reading -- what, 4:30 am?

4:35 am. Close.

He doesn’t understand it. 

This isn’t waking from a nightmare. He’s done that before -- plenty of times since he returned from Derry -- but this isn’t that. There’s no cold sweat; no elevated heart rate; no rising tide of panic. He doesn’t feel watched. He doesn’t feel as though there’s a solid weight compressing his chest, forcing him to gasp for air that won’t reach his lungs in the way he needs. 

Granted, nightmares -- fears -- can present themselves in different ways. He’s going off of his own experience here; the kind that he has actually had in the past month. This doesn’t feel like any of those past occasions, but there’s something unsettling about the dissonance of the morning all the same.

There are no sounds, he realises faintly. 

The squawking of pigeons (the rats of the sky, according to Eddie, though he can feel the weight of Stan’s disappointed stare whenever he even _thinks_ it) that is usually so permanent in New York is nowhere to be heard, like this is too early a morning even for them. Car horns blaring in the distance, the buzz of static from neon lights, drunken arguments of couples who have had one too many on a work night; all of these are noises that Eddie has come to associate with this city.

Once, he hated it. Hated how nothing ever seemed to stop around these parts, how impossible it had felt to get one moment of peace. But over the years, it’s all become something of a comfort. He can count on the city not to change -- fundamentally, at least. These are tiny markers that everything is exactly as it should be. 

He’s normally grateful for the silence of early mornings, feels like he needs it somehow. Now, though, with ears straining, he realises that they were never actually _silent_. The fusion of sounds just so familiar to him that it’s become white noise; the backing track of his everyday life.

The nothingness of the here and now sets his teeth on edge.

Well. There’s no way that he’s going to be able to get back to sleep. He’s fairly certain that this is going to throw his whole day off -- it’s just an hour and a half, sure, but an hour and a half is never _just_ that. It could be the difference between a good nights’ sleep or a bad one. Not to mention that his routine has been interrupted -- and, look, he’s not _Stan_ , he’s not that particular about his schedule and his patterns of living, but it’s. Good to have some fucking stability every once in a while, that’s all.

Especially lately.

An audible groan leaves him. It feels pretty wonderful actually, because he’s allowed to do it, because there’s nobody else here, because it’s something he can do without instantaneously worrying that someone is going to pounce on the first sign of discontent and question what’s wrong with him. Sometimes, a man just wants to groan in peace.

The clock reads 4:45 am. Which, categorically, is not much better.

It’s probably all in his head, but he feels more sluggish than he normally would, like he’s not quite ready to face the day. His head is thick with drowsiness; like someone is tugging at a string attached to his temples. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like there are many options available to him now -- he isn’t the sort of person who can lay in bed staring at the ceiling himself back to sleep before his alarm actually rings as it’s scheduled to. Once he’s up, he has to be _up_ , as exasperating as that can be for himself and for others.

He slides his legs out from under the sheets and over the edge of the bed, shivering at the sudden contact of the frigid air against his sleep-warmed skin. For a moment he sits there on the edge of the bed. Another sign that today is not a normal day, at least not for him. He isn’t prone to wasting time like this, even when his limbs feel a little burdened and his mind preoccupied with thoughts; most of them weighted with confusion due to the already atypical occurrences of the morning.

It’s nothing. It’s _probably_ nothing. But Eddie’s always been like this. Fixating on the things that seem unordinary to him, that seem like they might be a problem, until they actually _become_ a problem that he _actually_ has to deal with, and --

He takes a few deep, steadying breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Inhale on beats of four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. Like a mantra. It reminds him that he was supposed to start seeing a therapist, instead of just thinking about it, and spending his time googling things like ‘ _how to breathe_ ’ and _‘symptoms of a panic attack??_ ’ and ‘ _coping with anxiety_ ’ manically during the course of the day.

At least the breathing exercises he’s found have proven to be pretty effective. 

The next few steps he takes are almost mechanical. He makes the bed with his usual precision, leveling out the creases in the sheets as best he can, fluffing the pillows, folding back the top sheet neatly. He brushes his teeth, the timer on his phone set for exactly two minutes; then he flosses, finishing up with a gargle of mouthwash. It makes him feel a little better, sliding his tongue across the newly smooth surface of his teeth and reveling in the minty sharpness, before he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror over the sink.

The thing is, the past month has been weirdly good to him. Even with the shitstorm of killing the clown, the narrow avoidance of being speared through the gut, the shedload of repressed emotions and thoughts and memories suddenly storming to the forefront of his mind from where they’d been effectively buried for twenty seven years. Even with all of that, he can’t deny that he’s been doing better. His eyes -- harder, somehow, but brighter too -- track over his own face in the mirror, tracing the enclaves beneath his cheekbones, the jaw held less tightly than before, the colour to his skin that is worlds away from the sallow exhaustion of his former self. Less twitchy. He can look himself in the eyes -- through the medium of the mirror, at least -- and hold it, fighting the frequent urge to let his gaze flicker elsewhere.

His shoulders are taut today. He’s been feeling looser lately, something that’s come with his feeling more in control of his life, but the unexpectedness of this morning’s shift in his schedule is clearly displayed in the lines of his body.

It’s with a little more force than necessary that he washes his face, his upper right arm aching with the motion, water splashing across the mirror in a move that he instantly regrets. It’ll smudge the glass with streaks of dried droplets and he’ll have to deal with cleaning that up later, and he’ll be annoyed at himself for it.

But. That’s later.

The sky is beginning to brighten when Eddie finally sets off for his run; hues of blue filtering into lilacs and pinks at the fringe, the muted but no less beautiful colours of daybreak. The New York air is crisp, his breaths visible in faint puffs of smoke, and it rouses him, chasing away the last remnants of sleep from his bones. The city is waking from its slumber with him, and he feels all the better for it -- usually he runs with the distinctive voice of Stevie Nicks or the iconic melodies of Bowie playing through his ear buds, but not today. Today, he keeps his phone and the earphones wound deftly around it firmly zipped in the pocket of his shorts, and takes in the distant sound of early traffic; the chit chat of people just beginning to start their day; the radio that drifts through one open window, playing something new and unfamiliar to him.

He concentrates on the continuous sound of his trainer-clad feet hitting the sidewalk, on the tightness in his chest that burns so much more pleasantly than that which accompanies his anxiety, on the sensation of the muscles in his legs pulling and contracting when he picks up the pace. He hasn’t been running for long -- another thing picked back up upon his return from Derry -- but he loves it. Pushes himself too far sometimes, maybe, but can’t always bring himself to care. It’s something he knows is irrational, but he feels powerful like this. A reminder that he’s neither frail nor weak; that he never was. He has a sudden, vivid flashback to his mother ‘helping’ him to shirk the demands of the physical education classes at school, working to convince him that he couldn’t run because it was dangerous for him, and in real time he runs faster, harder, relishing the way his lungs expand to keep up, to get the oxygen pumping around his body.

It’s a decent run. 

His smartwatch shows the time at 5:45 am when he scans it upon his return to the apartment. He’s vibrating with a newfound energy, yet feeling a little highly strung.

It’s a frustration that running usually remedies, but not today.

Eddie considers making a smoothie, opening up the refrigerator to inspect it for ingredients. He pulls out kale, avocado and cucumber, busying himself for a moment with washing the ingredients dutifully under running cold water, ignoring the slight tremor in his hands. The blender is already sat waiting on the top of his kitchen counter in its rightful place, and he uses a serrated blade to cut the cucumber and the kale up into small, easily disintegrated pieces, spooning the avocado into the blender thereafter. The digits of one hand drum restlessly against the counter top, the other preoccupied with pouring the oat milk in and clipping the lid firmly into place.

It’s almost fully light outside now. A watery sun is just barely managing to stream in through the window, the room aglow in shades of washed out gold, illuminating the few belongings he has here. The apartment manages to look even colder in the light. 

_His_ apartment. Barely that. 

It’s been three weeks since he moved out of the home he shared with Myra and started renting this stark, unoccupied space on the other side of the city. Three weeks and two days, to be more exact. Eddie doesn’t regret it, but sometimes this doesn’t feel all that real to him. Maybe when the divorce finalises, he reasons, it will.

The finality of it still makes him squirm, a bit.

He pours the thick, aggressively green liquid of his smoothie into a glass tumbler, leaning back into the crevice where the countertops meet, and takes his phone out. Deliberating for all of thirty seconds, he presses resolutely on the ‘dial’ button before he can change his mind.

The line rings out for a second too long, long enough that he’s considering hanging up, before there’s a click and a voice.

“Eddie?” It’s slow like molasses; an edge of hoarseness to it.

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie says, taking the phone away from his ear for a moment to look at the time, even though his watch is _right there_ , before he’s barelling on, “Shit, sorry, Rich. It’s late there, right? I forgot about the time difference.”

Three hours, he thinks it is, between New York and Los Angeles. It’s just turned six am here, which means --

“Three. Late.” Richie hums his agreement through the phone. “Or early. Depends on how you look at it.”

“Did I wake you?” Eddie drags his teeth across his lower lip in an act of self-reproach. He sets the smoothie back down upon the counter.

“Well, it’s 3:00 am, so… yes.” Richie laughs. It sounds sleepy. “But it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I can call you back.” It’s an automatic response, politeness where it’s needed despite the fact that Eddie doesn’t want to call Richie back at all. He wants to speak to him here and now, even if he has nothing to say, and even if he doesn’t even know why he’s calling in the first place. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Richie repeats. “But seriously -- are you okay? This is an early call, even for you. It’s what -- six, there? Shouldn’t you be running, or cycling, or something.” He’s teasing, a little, Eddie can tell. 

He still answers. “Running. And I already did that.”

“Jesus, Eduardo, what time were you fucking up? That’s -- that’s really abnormal. I hate to break it to you. It’s inhumane, in fact. You should get that checked out.”

“No it’s not. Plenty of people enjoy early mornings.” He rolls his eyes at Richie’s words, but he’s smiling, here in New York where Richie can’t see it. He already feels better. Is that normal? Probably not. He’s not going to ask to find out, either. All of them feel like this, sometimes, he thinks, now that they remember one another again. Over the course of a month, he’s fielded calls and voice chats and texts from every single one of the losers, often at random times of the day, often for seemingly no reason other than them just wanting the contact. Eddie hasn’t had anything like this in a while; he wonders if any of them have. “Not all of us can stay in bed until 12:00 pm. Some of us have lives to be getting on with.”

“I don’t stay in bed til midday.” Richie sounds like he wants to protest a little more than that, but he also sounds _tired_. Eddie feels bad. Not bad enough to hang up though. “Not usually, anyway. I do have a job and a life, and shit to do, you know that, right?”

“Are we calling it a job now?” 

“Fuck you.” Richie says around a gravelly laugh. Eddie has to take a moment to close his eyes and listen to it, in a way that is entirely rational. It makes him feel at home; takes him back to the hospital right after they’d killed It, when the gaping mess of Eddie’s upper arm had been stitched up and Richie’s laugh-- which had been a lot more relieved but just as gruff -- had gotten him through it. Well. That and the pain medication. “Do I have to remind you that I earn more than you?”

“Jesus, no. It’s ridiculous. Do you know how much work I have to do on a daily basis? Do you know how many assholes I have to deal with? It’s unfair.”

“Yep. And all I do is stand on stage and talk about my wreck of a life… guess you did draw the short stick. It’s fitting, if you think about it.”

Eddie manages to ignore the jab about his height, scarcely, because it’s already habitual again.

He _enjoys_ his job, which surprises everybody and nobody. Sure, he wishes he’d gone to college to undertake a mechanical engineering degree, to carry out his childhood dream of working with and on cars -- but that had never been an option for him back then. He couldn’t even imagine how his mother would have reacted if he’d told her, but he can imagine the rants even now -- about the possibility of being crushed beneath the cars, about the grime and the dirt and the health implications of working in such an environment, of the financial instability such work could bring to his life. He’d chosen the safer option. The one that would placate her. 

He _doesn’t_ hate his job, though. He’s good at it, likes that it’s methodical and sometimes challenging, and that he can sit and focus on something for hours at a time, knowing that it’ll be a job well done at the end of it. He likes _being good_ at something.

He also knows that standing on stage and talking about his life is _not_ ‘all’ Richie does by any means. He couldn’t do what Richie does. He doesn’t think any of them could -- and not just because it’s nerve-wracking to be so splayed wide open on a platform that too many people know and see, but also because none of them have ever been as funny as Richie is. Even with him telling other people's jokes -- which he does, or at least _did_ \-- he manages to carry it off. It’s the charisma. Eddie knows this because he’s watched every single one of Richie’s specials and shows that he could find online now, consuming the material with a hunger formerly unbeknownst to him, picking out the parts that he knows are more Richie (these stand out from the rest of the trash, because they’re the best parts; the parts where Richie comes across as more genuine, which Eddie can recognise because he knows Richie).

Richie at his best fills an entire stage with nothing but his electrifying personality. He’s larger than life and someone that people want to know. Eddie can remember wanting nothing more than to be his best friend when they were kids. A part of him still desperately craves that closeness now, in a way that feels staggeringly childlike.

Eddie forces himself back to the conversation with some effort.

“...I’m going to talk to my agent soon, anyway. Do what I said I was going to do with the whole ‘letting go of my writer and coming out’ thing, so that should be… interesting.” Richie’s saying. “He might fire me. Can he fire me? Shit, maybe I should have read the contract after all…”

Eddie snorts despite himself. “He can probably drop you. But I doubt he will. You’ve got to be one of his best clients, right?”

“Depends on how you define ‘best’.” There’s rustling from Richie’s end of the line; like he’s moving around in his bed, or getting out of his bed. “Think I’m one of his money makers. But I’m also one of his _troublemakers_ if you ask him, so…”

“Money’s more important to these people.” Eddie picks his smoothie back up, taking a sip and only pulling a face because he knows nobody is around to see it. If someone was, he’d suck it up rather than show his own distaste for the stuff. Living alone has its perks, even if he doesn’t really want to be alone -- but anything beats living with Myra. It took him a long time and a near death experience to realise that. “He’ll be fine with it. He has to be. He’d be a jackass if he isn’t.”

Richie makes a non-committal sound. “Mm. Well. I’m gonna do it regardless, so either he’s fine with it, or I get a new agent. How hard could it be? Who doesn’t want to represent a middle-aged man with thinning hair, who’s built his career over the years on skits about jerking it to multiple women and now wants to come out as gay? It’ll be an easy sell.”

Eddie can hear the stiffness of his words, the unease just undulating beneath the surface of what he’s saying. There’s a tightness to Richie’s laugh that makes Eddie’s chest feel a little tight in answer, no amount of jokes able to cover up the fact that this is very real and very scary for Richie. Scarier than facing the clown? He doesn’t know. He hopes not, for Richie’s sake.

He’s moving towards the lounge area of the apartment so that he can sit down, letting himself fall back against the soft upholstery of the sofa. 

It’s -- difficult. He can’t remember having too many serious moments between them as kids; any that they did have purporting to amass around the same time that they had first faced the clown, because that was the most significant thing that had ever happened to any of them. He thinks of his broken arm, the way Richie had talked him down and harnessed his attention on anything but the clown even with the sheer fright he had been experiencing at the time. Even then it had felt like something monumental.

Beyond that, most of their interactions were concealed with teasing, sometimes tinged with meanness on a knife’s edge.

But it’s them. Maybe once he wouldn’t have known what that meant, but he does now. Richie -- the rest of them -- they’re his friends. Eddie figures all he has to do is be a friend back; no expectations, few regulations. He can do this. He’s done it before, if memories are to be believed.

“He’d be stupid to drop you,” he says, pulling at a loose thread in the sofa despite knowing that the end result will only piss him off more. He’ll probably end up having to fork out for a new sofa once he’s finished unravelling this one, but for now it’s just something to do with his hands. “A total fucking moron. I’m -- we’re all going to be here for you. For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing.”

There ensuing silence gets a little too heavy. Enough time passes that Eddie wonders if he’s said the wrong thing, somehow, going back over the words and coming up blank. To his own mind, they sound -- fine. Like the sort of a thing a friend would and should say. But maybe this isn’t what Richie expects of him, even though they’re older now. He feels the crease of his brow, like the human version of a question mark, and opens his mouth to say something more.

“It does,” Richie’s speaking before he can; voice quieter than Eddie thinks he’s ever heard from him. “I mean -- it’s worth… a lot. Thanks.”

It’s a little awkward, honestly. Eddie isn’t used to having these kinds of conversations, and he’ll be damned if Richie is -- but there’s something pacifying about it, too. He stops tugging at the loose thread, using his palm to flatten it back against the arm of the sofa; out of sight, out of mind. He’ll get a pair of scissors to cut it down later.

“Any time.” He means it. “Unless it goes badly. Then we can pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“I don’t know, Eds. I might have to hold it against you.” Richie sounds like he’s smiling, and Eddie’s lips lift up in solidarity with it, even when he bristles at the nickname. “Now, I know how much we both love to talk about me and my incredibly fascinating life, but -- was there something you needed? I’m all ears -- seriously. Have you seen the size of these things?”

The question hidden amongst the jest catches Eddie off guard. It shouldn’t. He’s the one that called Richie at a God awful time, and even if he doesn’t really know _why_ , there has to be a reason, doesn’t there? He has to think about it. He drops his head back against the top of the cushions behind him, rolling his neck over so that he’s looking towards the window instead. The gray of the building neighboring his is beginning to block out the feeble attempts of sunshine, and the pigeons are back to creating a ruckus with their croaking. 

Suddenly it all looks pretty fucking bleak.

He opens his mouth to speak again, and this time Richie doesn’t beat him to it. He’s expecting himself to say something like ‘ _no, nothing, I’m good_ ’ or ‘ _I just needed to talk to a friend_ ’ or even something more alarmingly honest like _‘I woke up and I really just wanted to hear your voice’_.

Instead, he says: “I think I need to get out of New York.”

He realises immediately that he means it; that it’s the truth. The revelation drops like a stone between them in the ensuing silence, laden with honesty. 

“Oh -- uh.” There’s even more rustling through the phone now. If Richie wasn’t already out of bed before, Eddie is pretty sure he is now. “Okay. That’s -- is this because of your divorce? Look, I don’t know anything about this woman, man, but don’t let her drive you out of your city. New York’s a pretty big place, you know, you can --”

“No.” Eddie sighs. And then he says: “Yes. I don’t know. I just think it could be good for me right now.”

He has no fucking clue where this has come from, truth be told, but he does know that this admittance feels like relief to him. It’s a sudden realisation hits him like a sock to the jaw is what it is; just as painful and unexpected. He’s made some changes in his life -- some real, big, important changes -- but this is something more than that. A fresh start. A clean slate.

His heart is clamouring in his chest like it is furiously protesting the very idea, and that’s partly how he knows it’s the right thing. These days, a lot of things can be separated into two categories for Eddie. Things that are easy, simple, orthodox for him -- and things that scare him; things that he’s never done before; things that could shake the foundations of his life. 

A life that, by all accounts, could do with the shaking.

“Okay.” Richie speaks carefully, but he’s not questioning it. Eddie appreciates that. “Okay, that’s fine. That’s good. Where are you thinking of going?”

“Oh.” Eddie says, because he hasn’t thought about this. Of course he hasn’t thought about this, because _this_ is something that he’s only now decided he wants at all. “I don’t know. I guess I could go west.” He taps his fingers against his thighs, before clasping his hands together, watching as the skin turns mottled yellow-white.

A pause.

“You could --” Richie coughs. It sounds a little forced. “You could come here? If you want, I mean. I’ve got plenty of room in casa Tozier, there’s a spare bedroom...”

Another pause; Eddie’s fault this time.

“But it’s just a suggestion. You can say no. Duh. I get it if you don’t want to --” Richie’s careering forward with the conversation.

“No, I do.” Eddie forces the words out, pushing past them briskly before he can second guess it. “That sounds good.” He’s already sliding towards the edge of the sofa, stretching across the coffee table to draw his laptop towards him. “Does next week work?”

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, sure thing, bud, sounds great.”

Eddie pauses with his forefinger over the space bar of the keyboard, brows drawing together at the strangled tone of Richie’s voice. “Are you sure? We don’t -- I can find something else, it’s not a big deal.”

“Hey, no, it’s fine. I offered, didn’t I?” He sounds -- better, now, his tone recovered. 

Eddie relaxes, continuing with the web search. He types in ‘ _flights from NYC to LA_ ’ and filters through the results for the next week, feeling a dizzy sort of excitement building in his stomach. It could also be nausea, but he’s choosing to ignore that for now. “Okay, well -- there’s one for Monday, that’s only -- two days from now, but --” He wants to leave. He wants to get out of the city.

“But nothing. Book it.”

It’s all the reassurance Eddie needs. He tries not to think about how crazy this is, and then says, “I’m going to get an outbound ticket, no return. Is that okay?” Because he realises he’s never specified a period of time for this, but the more he’s thinking about it, the more _forever_ reverberates around his mind.

Not forever living with Richie, obviously. That would be -- not the right thing to do. That would be weird. It would be weird with any of the losers, but -- 

But he figures he can stay there until he finds his feet, and then look for his own place, a new job -- and _fuck_ , yeah, he’s going to have to send his resignation letter in today without working the notice, which isn’t ideal, but -- who cares, really? He barely knows his co-workers, despite having been with the company for fifteen years, and it seems stupid to start worrying about what they’ll think of him now when he hasn’t for so long --

Distantly, he recognises that Richie is speaking again.

“-- as long as you need. Eds? Eddie? Oh my god, are you even listening to me right now? Here I am, offering you my spare room out of the goodness of my heart, and you’re not even listening --”

“Shut up. God. Do you always talk this much? Maybe this is a bad idea.” He says exasperatedly, but he’s already clicking through the site on his laptop, inputting the bank details he knows from memory. “All booked. I’ll land at 6.45. Evening. I’ll get an Uber, just send through your address and --”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Richie interrupts patiently. “I’ll come and get you.”

“You can drive?” Eddie’s skeptical. He doesn’t know why he asks, because he knows this information. He saw the car in Derry, and he watched Richie drive off to the airport two days after they’d killed Pennywise.

“Since I got my permit at seventeen.” Richie replies cheerfully. “Don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe. I’ll drive the speed limit for you and everything.”

Eddie screws up his face indignantly. “Does that mean you don’t usually drive the speed limit, _what the fuck_ _Richie_?!”

Richie’s resounding cackle is all he hears before he hangs up the call.

  
  


*

In LA, Richie half throws his phone onto the bed beside him with a satisfying whump and promptly drops his head into his hands. He’s suddenly acutely aware that he’s just made a _very bad_ decision. The sort of decision that would have Stan’s nostrils flaring in judgement, and Bev looking at him with eyes deep as the ocean and just as damp. Pitying. It’s an expression he’s pretty used to facing by now, though usually in different contexts.

He scrubs his hand over his face roughly then lets it drop to his side, looking at the time -- on the clock, not on his phone. He doesn’t want to touch his phone again quite yet, worried that he’ll do something else equally as reckless as offering Eddie his spare bedroom for an undefined period of time. 

The red lights blink the relevant digits back at him: four am, now. He’s just spent almost an hour on the phone with Eddie, which is not completely out of the ordinary, but the ending of the conversation -- well. He has few words to say about that except _what the fuck_. 

It’s early -- or late -- enough that he can blame his terrible choices on that if anyone asks (because it’s not like he’ll be able to keep this information to himself for long; he’s called _Trashmouth_ for a reason, and not wholly because of his proclivity for cussing and filthy jokes). He’ll have to say that he was caught off guard, still sleep-weary and stupid, instead of saying what the real problem is, which is that he’s equally as weak for Eddie Kaspbrak now at forty one as he was twenty seven years ago. And that -- that _is_ a real problem. Of epic proportions. He lets out a lamented groan, listening to it echo around the room, recognising that he will not be falling back to sleep.

He feels wired. Probably looks it too; jittery and on edge, like he is on those days where he drinks too much coffee and starts letting the really weird jokes spill out of his mouth like a river of mud, the ones that always get vetoed. Welp, jokes on them, he thinks, because once he starts writing his own shit, ain’t nobody and nothing gonna stop him from doing what he wants. Or something like that. He hasn’t quite worked out the nuts and bolts of what he’s going to say to his agent, but he reckons it’ll be something along those lines. Very _‘stick it to the man’_ , and all that.

It should be a refreshing thought -- freeing, to know that he’s going to be telling the truth for once in his life. But it mostly just makes his heart sink to his stomach. Apparently the realisation that you’re ready to blow up your entire career purely because you want to, like, _be yourself_ or something will do that to you.

Fuck. 

He really hopes he doesn’t blow up his career. What the fuck is he supposed to do if he _does_? It’s not like he has a secondary job or anything to fall back on.

He thinks back to his conversation with Eddie again, because it’s not something that’s really going to leave his mind now, at least not for the next two days before Eddie arrives here in LA and, oh _fuck_ , he really went and did that, didn’t he? He really went and offered his spare room out to the guy he’s been pathetically pining after for half his life, like some sort of brainless moron with no sense of survival skills.

Staunchly, he knows that he cannot tell Bev. He cannot tell Bev because that will be the equivalent of him writing ‘IDIOT’ on his own forehead in thick, block lettering -- or comic sans. Probably in comic sans, just to really add salt to the wound. She won’t say it, but she’ll think it, and she’ll be absolutely within her right to think it. 

Richie rubs at his own forehead absently, drawing his fingers back to peer at them even though he can’t see shit with it still being dark outside, like he’s going to see black ink coming away onto his skin.

There’s no ink. Obviously.

“Okay.” He mutters to himself, feeling even more ridiculous for it, and then looks down at his phone beside him. He picks it up at the corner gingerly as though it could bite, because this past conversation has shaken him quite possibly more than the phone call with Mike calling him back to Derry had, which is truly saying a lot, but -- 

That’s not a bad idea, actually.

Taking a breath, Richie rolls his lower lip between his teeth and shoots off a quick text to Mike, explaining the situation in limited vocabulary and with text speech that even Bill would be impressed by. He’s not even sure he recognises some of the abbreviations he uses himself. He throws a skull emoji in for good measure. 

Mike is arguably the least judgemental of their little band of clown-murdering fucks. Belatedly, he then realises that Mike doesn’t exactly _know_ about Richie and his less than brotherly affections for their dear friend, so the message might not even make sense to him in the slightest.

Then he thinks back on a conversation that he had had with Bev, not long after he came out to them over video call after Derry. She and Stan had always been the most perceptive, and his being Kinsey six gay had apparently been of no surprise to them -- neither had the fact that Richie was somehow still dealing with a fuckload of repressed emotions revolving around their mutual, hypochondrical friend Eddie. 

“ _Even after all this time?”_ Bev had said, with her downturned lips and her sympathetic eyes, and Richie hadn’t wanted to say yes, knowing how pitiful that was, but it had been written all over him anyway. Like someone had taken a black sharpie to his skin, marking him up with the impure truth of his love that had lasted a lifetime of redacted memories. 

In the end, he hadn’t justified it with an answer. He’d quirked a brow, letting his gaze flicker between Bev’s face and Ben’s retreating back, taking a grossly immature sense of satisfaction in the way her cheek bones had dusted rosy pink, because like fuck was he the only one _after all this time_. 

People in glass houses and shit. Apparently they were all at least a little bit fucked up; he could take some comfort in that. 

But at least with Ben and Bev it’s mutual. That has to count for something, and he’s gratified for them, really. He’s also mildly envious of the fact that they’ve found one another and there’s been no questioning it. No wondering whether it’s right for them, whether they both feel the same - just this _knowing_ that he will never have. 

Scratch the ‘IDIOT’. He should have ‘PINING AFTER EDDIE KASPBRAK’ emblazoned across his forehead. Except it’s obvious enough anyway. He doesn’t really need that. _Fuck_.

God, who is he even kidding? Everyone knows how he feels -- or at least could hazard a guess as to how he feels -- except for the one person who should conceivably know. Eddie somehow (blessedly) seems to be none the wiser than he was at thirteen, when Richie was about as subtle as a brick and even more vexingly demanding of Eddie’s attention. If Eddie didn’t know then, he won’t know now. 

But Mike -- Mike probably -- definitely -- will.

He groans again, which he thinks is reasonable, and it’s lower and longer this time. Then he drags himself up and out of the bed after some deliberation. He leaves the sheets messy and tangled behind him, scratching at his stomach as he plods into the bathroom. Indistinctly, he thinks he can hear the dull buzz of his phone vibrating atop his bed, but he refuses to turn back and deal with that just yet, even though it’s probably Mike and Richie’s the one who made the first contact by sending the text, but. It’s still scarcely past four in the morning, and he needs at least another hour to stabilise himself before he even thinks about having another potentially rattling discussion.

Even one he’s brought upon himself.

The shower is on its default heat setting of ‘hellfire’ and he stands under the almost painful spray of the water for longer than is really necessary, allowing the water to beat down upon his back; shifting from foot to foot as carefully as he can so as to avoid slipping and cracking open his head on the porcelain, because that would be just his luck. Richie can’t stay still at the best of times, but he feels -- exactly like he did when he stuck his finger in a plug on a dare in college, because he’s an _idiot_ , and he could never seem to say no back then, not if he thought that doing the opposite would get people to like him. 

Electrified. He feels electrified.

It’s not the good kind of nervous energy that he gets before he goes on stage in front of a crowd because it has a touch of trepidation to it. Richie doesn’t dread doing his shows like he once used to -- although admittedly he hasn’t actually had a show for three months now, but he remembers the last time, and he hadn’t been worried about it. Maybe because he’s been resting on his laurels for so long, working the stage like a puppeted monkey, telling someone else’s bad jokes. Any criticism he gets still makes him feel like shit, but he can feel better about it after convincing himself that it’s not him; it’s the material that isn’t even his in the first place.

So. He doesn’t feel nauseous before his shows anymore.

This kind of energy is different to that which he is used to. It feels ominous; like some sort of stark warning that he’s going to fuck up, and it’s not something he can objectively ignore or deny, because it seems all too sensible a belief. He’s the fucking _king_ of fuck ups at this stage in his life, the mistakes of his life smeared in red ink upon his ledger for all to see. He can’t honestly surmise that having Eddie here -- in LA, in his _home_ \-- for an indefinite period of time is going to be fine. Being in the general vicinity of the guy for all of two, three days, when they were back in Derry? That had been exhausting enough for him, especially with the sudden rush of long-smothered _yearning_ that had all but bowled him over the moment he had set eyes upon Eddie. 

Hopefully, that was nothing more than the visceral first reaction, and anything from here on out won’t be nearly so forceful. 

Richie kind of doubts that, though, considering his heart took on the pace of a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights the moment he’d woken up from his sleep and focused his eyes long enough to recognise that it was Eddie who was calling, only an hour or so ago.

Fuck. He’s fucked.

After the inordinately lengthy shower he examines his reflection blearily in the mirror, through glasses misted with steam. It’s never _that_ pleasant, honestly, but especially not today, when the bags under his eyes are definitely of Walmart brand rather than designer, purpling darkly with the severity of his stress; his wet hair clinging onto his scalp for dear life; his skin, chalkier than he would usually expect to see. He looks like shit. Kind of feels like it too, but he knows he’s not going to be able to rectify the lack of sleep right now.

In truth, he’s barely slept at all since he got back from Derry. He’s been plagued by unsettling dreams which leave him dead-eyed and lethargic on a basis that is too often to be comfortable. Sometimes, he wonders if he’s still actually caught in the deadlights; suspended forever more in the bitterness of a place that stinks of stagnant water and rotting flesh.

He sighs at his own reflection, fogging up the mirror a bit more, and then goes back into the bedroom.

It takes all of five minutes for him to rifle through his wardrobe and pull out a forest green hoodie -- because _fuck you_ Stan, forty one year olds can too wear fucking hoodies -- and tug it over his head, leaving droplets of water from his hair speckled all down the fabric of it, resting against still damp skin. Then he grabs his phone and heads downstairs.

The first port of call is always coffee. It’s probably too early. He glances at the clock on his phone -- 4.30 now -- and winces; it’s definitely too early. He’s also already pumped-up but he thinks _fuck it_ and presses what he hopes is the right button on the machine anyway. 

Within minutes, he’s holding a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand -- so strong you could stand a spoon upright in it -- and sitting on his sofa with the lamp on, because it’s still dark, and even though he’s opened the blinds down here, it’s doing _jackshit_ for his already poor vision.

Richie reads through the notifications on his phone he’d previously been ignoring ( _Mike Hanlon (3) Missed Calls_ ) and pulls a face. It’s halfway between distressed and apprehensive. Again, he remembers he did this to himself, so he resigns himself to his fate; blowing a raspberry at his phone even as he taps the screen to dial Mike back.

“Richie!” Mike exclaims cheerfully, picking up on the first ring. 

Richie has to wince at the sheer volume of his voice, pulling the phone away from his ear momentarily. “Jesus, fuck. Mike -- inside voices, please. The sun isn’t even up on my side of the country yet.”

“Sorry.” Mike doesn’t sound sorry at all. He sounds pleased, if Richie was going to describe it as anything. “It’s a wonderful day here. I wish you could have seen the sunrise this morning. It was…” he sighs happily. “Breathtaking. Nothing like you’d see in Derry, you know?”

God. Richie hates his friends, who seem intent on making everything inherently romantic. He supposes Mike deserves it though. After being stuck in the purgatory that is Derry for the better part of his life whilst the rest of them moved on and literally forgot about it all, never once looking back at their hometown with all their childhood haunts and the kids they had spent those summers with. He can’t imagine what Mike’s been through, really, having this awful ability to remember more than any of them ever did, simply because he never had the opportunity to leave that shit hole. 

He grimaces, but Mike’s already speaking again.

“I got your text!”

“Brilliant. Great.” Richie resists the urge to hang up. “That’s generally the idea when someone sends you one, so, glad to know it’s all working.”

“Yeah, I tried calling you straight back but it went to voicemail? Strange.”

“Strange.” Richie murmurs his agreement.

“Anyway -- Eddie’s moving to LA? Really? As in our Eddie?”

“No, the other Eddie. The other Eddie that lives in New York and has also just recently divorced his wife. That Eddie.”

“I think this is really good,” Mike continues, steadfastly pushing past Richie’s words; or ignoring them. Richie doesn’t know why he bothers, but knows that Mike probably isn’t even doing it on purpose. It’s probably for the best, anyway. “This will be good for him, right? I could tell when we were in Derry that he didn’t really wanna go back to New York, but I suppose he sort of had to. Nothing’s keeping him there now, though, I guess.. It makes sense. He probably wants a new start.”

Richie’s face involuntarily does _something_ at the mention of Eddie not having anything in New York worth staying for anymore. He doesn’t know what it is that his face does, but it’s something. “Yes, sure, this is wonderful for our little Eduardo,” he says briskly. “But what about _me_? Can someone please think of me in this situation?”

“Didn’t you offer him to come stay with you?” Mike sounds quizzical. It’s understandable.

“ _Yes_.” Richie pushes his glasses up a bit, pressing the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. “I did. But I was half asleep and clearly not thinking, and this is going to be awful. For me, specifically. Not for Eddie. It’ll probably be great for Eddie.”

Mike hums down the phone. Richie isn’t totally sure that he’s still listening to him, which is absolutely typical. Why won’t anyone listen to him today? If the rest of the day is going to continue on like this, he may as well pack it all in now.

“I think it’ll be fine,” Mike’s words are unhurried and deliberate. “For both of you.”

“How can you think that? What part of this is _fine_?”

“Rich, listen to me,” God, was Mike’s voice always this soothing? Richie can practically feel himself dissolve back into the sofa with it, most of his frustration already ebbing. “Eddie’s your friend, right? I mean, after Stan he was always your best friend back then. I don’t see why any of that would change now. It’s just Eddie. You’ll be the same as you always were, both of you. Just.. older.”

It sounds about right. It also sounds horrifically disappointing, which is -- stupid. 

Richie knows he can’t focus on unfounded possibilities, not for one minute, and he never has, really. Not in the past month since ‘the remembering’ happened. He hasn’t once considered that Eddie might ever feel the same way, and he doubts he ever will consider it, given that there’s no reason for him to. The man is _straight_ , for one. The wife -- or lack thereof now, he supposes -- is evidence enough of that. For another… the thought of Eddie Kaspbrak ever being interested in Richie Tozier is hilariously ridiculous. 

Regardless… to hear it vocalised -- despite that likely not being what Mike means at all -- feels a bit like he’s just been told he’s never going to amount to anything (which he was told, by various teachers back in Derry and, _ha_ , look at him now)! 

But that’s not the point.

The point is -- Mike’s right. They’ll be exactly the same as they always were; hopefully with less obvious pining from Richie’s side, but he can’t promise anything.

“Richie?” Mike prompts, after what must be several minutes of nothing but static.

Richie makes a cautious sound, before, “Fine. You’re right. Were you always this comforting? I don’t remember you being this comforting.”

“I think I was.” Mike sounds like he’s actually thinking about it. Richie feels an immediate and unexpected rush of warmth towards him.

“Well, don’t tell anyone, but you were always my favourite. Not Stan or Eddie.”

It’s a bald-faced lie and they both know it.

“Sure, Rich.” Mike says amicably, instead of calling him out on it, like any one of the others would have done.

“Okay.” Richie frowns. “Now tell me I was your favourite.”

The answering laughter is hearty and loud and tells him all he needs to know. He hangs up the call, even though he’s already previously told himself that he won’t get into the habit of doing so. That’s two in -- what, as many hours? Whatever. It’s not like he does it when it’s important, or when any of them could logically take offence. Sometimes, it just seems like the best way of ending a conversation, either when he’s avoiding being yelled at, or laughed at. It’s effective for both scenarios.

He finishes his coffee, despite it being lukewarm and a little gross by now, and then decides to expend some of his energy on cleaning up the house. It’s not disgusting by any means -- he’s a grown adult, he knows how to take care of his home and of himself -- but it’s certainly not up to Eddie’s standards. He figures it’ll take the entirety of the two days he has before Eddie’s arrival to get it even _close_ to meeting those standards, because Eddie’s a fussy little bastard and Richie secretly delights in that -- but the effort will be appreciated. Probably.

Well, _he_ might feel better about it, at least.

  
  


*

LA is _hot_.

This isn’t new information to Eddie, but the juxtaposition between the weather back in New York and the weather in LA is still striking to a certain degree. 

He complains lowly to himself the entire time he’s waiting for his luggage (is there any fucking air conditioning in this airport? It feels like there isn’t, which is unreasonable and should also be illegal), almost getting into a scuffle with someone who tries to take _his_ suitcase and claim it as theirs. It’s standard black and hard-shelled, durable and nondescript; except for the luggage tag in the shape of a 1969 Dodge Charger that has his name and address -- old address, not even the address of his now vacated New York apartment, but the address of the home he shared with Myra because he still hasn’t updated it for some reason -- written on it because it’s _his_. 

It stands out against the professional chic of the suitcase; something he’d bought for himself on a whim five years ago, even though Myra had been quizzically unimpressed by the purchase. It’s probably one of the only things he’s really bought for himself.

Eventually, he manages to point it out to the boneheaded guy who seems like he’s about to try and physically take the suitcase from him. He throws in a sharp-edged smile for good measure and leaves, still muttering under his breath.

It’s fine. He’s been dealing with New Yorkers for the past however long; _was_ a New Yorker by any account. He can deal with the idealistic, selfish morons that he’s sure inhabit this city for the most part.

He’s aware he’s being a little unfair, considering he hasn’t even _been_ into the city yet, but -- Jesus, he never thought he’d wind up in Los Angeles, of all places. It seems like the least likely resting space for him. But then -- New York only ever made sense for him because of his job, because of the way he fits in, looking for all of the world like some repressed Wall Street banker. Beyond that, he doesn’t think it was ever a city that suited him.

The flight wasn’t actually as bad as he had been expecting it to be -- namely because he slept for at least eighty percent of it -- but now he’s irritable; wound up a bit too tightly. Nothing new there, then. He pauses, moving away from the centre of the walkway and closer to the wall so that he can take his phone out of his pocket without causing too much of a disruption to anyone else queuing behind him to find their way out. He means to text Richie that he’s here, and that _Richie_ better be here too, but he finds he doesn’t have to; he already has a notification ( _Richie Tozier (1) New Message_ ).

It’s a selfie of Richie standing near the arrivals gate. His face is scrunched up so violently it’s wrinkling in every which way possible, and he looks absolutely ridiculous. He’s giving a thumbs up to the camera. Eddie feels his lips quirk up in response to it.

He feels lighter after seeing that, most of the prior irritability evaporating. Waiting around for people at the airport is probably one of his least favorite things about traveling, and he’d half anticipated Richie being late -- though distantly he recognises that Richie wouldn’t do that to him. 

Catching sight of the fluorescent green ‘ARRIVALS’ sign, Eddie heads off in that direction, following the various arrows and the signs until he comes out somewhere near the entrance of the airport. Even at this time of the day, the place is bustling with activity, people rushing around from all angles with _purpose_ , and he gets it. He’s used to it. It’s still a little overwhelming.

And then he sees Richie.

He’s wearing one of those ghastly (but also sort of endearing) Hawaiian shirts - a vivid orange base that is dotted with yellow pineapples - and leaning against some sort of railing that doesn’t look nearly stable enough to carry his weight. Eddie bites back the admonishment waiting on his lips, dragging his suitcase behind him as he steps forward into Richie’s line of vision. 

Instantaneously, he feels a little awkward. It’s stupid, he knows, because it’s only Richie, and because he’s going to be living in Richie’s home, so it’s not exactly opportune for him to think this -- just _this_ \-- is awkward.

It’s something he knows all too well.

Richie raises his head at precisely the wrong moment, to find Eddie standing a few feet away and peering at him a little dumbfoundedly.

“Eddie, Eduardo, Eds!” Richie all but crows, pushing off the railing and stepping out towards Eddie, who doesn’t move for a moment. “How was your flight?”

Right. The flight.

He nods jerkily. “Rich, hi, it was -- it was fine. No issues.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Don’t call me that.” 

“Cool, cool, cool,” Richie nods, like he’s only heard the first part of that. Eddie can see his hands working their way into the pockets of his jeans before he seems to think better of it. “That’s good. Here, let me get that.” He reaches around Eddie to grab the handle of his suitcase and Eddie unthinkingly lets him. His arm is crying out for a bit of relief anyway. “It’s about 6:45 now, so... I figured you’d want to just get back to the house, I can order in takeout. What do you usually eat? I know you have all your… allergies and things.”

He’s rambling a little, and the way his lip twists on the word _allergies_ makes Eddie feel a little too seen. But he’s also inexplicably aware of how happy he is to be here. “Yeah, sure, that -- that sounds great. Maybe Thai? I’ve been eating less restrictively lately.” 

His cheeks are dotted with crimson even before he makes his next move, but he perseveres, dogged as ever. He takes a few steps, closing the distance between them, and then hugs Richie, one arm around his shoulders and one curving past his lower back to remedy the height difference.

He hears Richie’s breath catch in his throat. It seems to take him a few seconds to remember himself, because there’s a semi-uncomfortable moment where it’s just Eddie hugging Richie’s rigid form before Richie is returning the embrace, and then it’s simply -- really good. 

Richie’s arms are strong and sturdy around him, pulling Eddie tightly against the length of his body for this brief period of time, and Eddie lets himself enjoy the physical contact; it’s not what he’s used to. He can’t remember the last time he touched someone like this; let alone _instigated_ it. It’s just a _hug_ . Something so innocent, and yet widely foreign to him. Maybe that’s only out of the context of the losers now, though. He can feel the muscles of Richie’s back shifting beneath his arms, noting the way Richie has to stoop a little to get down to the right height, and even then Eddie’s face is only level with his neck, but for once he’s not bothered by it. Not when it’s Richie. When he breathes in, he’s inhaling a scent that his brain helpfully hallmarks as _Richie_. He smells good, not like he had when they were kids, when the unpleasant scent of quarry water and sweat and week-old socks seemed to cling to him.

It’s not the first time they’ve hugged -- hell, it’s not even the first time they’ve hugged as _adults_. But it’s the first time they’ve done it without the threat of the clown looming overhead, or the relief of It’s demise still settling in.

They pull apart too soon, and Eddie’s mouth twitches. His face feels hot, but at least it _is_ hot in here, and he can use that as an excuse if he’s called up on it. “It’s good to see you, man.”

Richie’s responding smile is quiet but warm. “You too.” Then a strange expression crosses his face, and he asks, “That _was_ your phone in your pocket, right?”

“Fuck you.” Eddie grumbles, nudging Richie less than gently with the sharp knife of his elbow. Okay, _now_ his face is hot. “God, you’re the worst. I don’t know why I’m doing this. Take me to the car.”

Whatever small level of unease there once was between them has now subsided into something comfortable within only a few moments of them being in one another’s company. For all his words, Eddie knows he’s made the right decision. 

He tries to remember this when he steps out of the airport and the somehow sweltering heat of LA hits him smack in the face. It’s almost 7:00 pm now, and the temperature is still bordering a dangerous level of threat according to him, someone used to the heat only in the heights of summer, and never as stifling as this. He grimaces, tugging at the collar of his shirt to peel it away from his skin where it’s beginning to stick.

“What are you looking at?” He half growls at Richie when he catches him tracking the movement, his own eyes narrowed. “It’s fucking hot, you can’t seriously be judging me for sweating right now.”

“Hold your horses, Eduardo,” Richie shifts his gaze, already slipping into one of his more smug smiles. “I’m not judging. I am, however, going to commit this moment to memory as the one time you look more of a mess than me.”

“I just got off a five hour flight, I think I’m _allowed_ .” Eddie sniffs. “Besides, how is this the _one time_? You literally had to take me to the hospital with a chunk carved out of my arm.”

“Eh. You pulled it off. It was so… rugged… macho… At one point I thought Bev was gonna drop Benny boy for you. Which -- thank God she didn’t, can you _imagine_ having to deal with a heartbroken Ben? It wouldn’t have been pretty.”

“Ha ha.” Eddie says without humour, levelling a glare in the general direction of Richie’s head. He can’t see it right now because they’ve arrived at the car and he’s half bent into the trunk of it, hauling Eddie’s not so light suitcase up and into the vehicle effortlessly. Eddie is mildly impressed at _how_ effortlessly but he decides to stay quiet on that front. “You’re a dick.”

“That is basically my name,” Richie reminds him cheerfully, pushing down on the trunk until it shuts with a soft click, and nodding his head towards the passenger side. “Your chariot awaits, good sir.” 

“Good to know some things don’t change,” Eddie moves tugs open the passenger side door, catching Richie throwing a quizzical brow at him over the roof of the car. He shrugs, “Your Voices are still terrible.”

The responding squawk that emits from Richie’s body sounds like a cat being strangled. It’s music to Eddie’s ears.

Richie’s car is nicer than he remembered. He buckles his seatbelt, hands twitching to start rifling through the glove compartment even though he has absolutely no right nor reason to do. He’s suddenly overtly curious about Richie’s life. Which is fine. He feels like he has a lot to catch up on, and he’s going to be living with him - surely it’s only natural to take an interest in his new room-mates life, right?

God. _Room-mate_. 

The word makes him shudder involuntarily. It makes him feel like he’s twenty years old with no clue about the world again; except he never really did the room-mate thing back then either, not even in college. It was easy to explain away at the time; nobody questioned him when he explained he just didn’t _want_ to live with other students; that he wouldn’t be able to cope with the mess and untidiness and the slobbishness that he was always so sure would be rife in college, because coming from him it was so easy for people to believe. The truth was a lot sadder. That, at the time, he’d still lived with his mom and even a singular thought of leaving and having to tell her that was enough to send him spiralling into a panic attack. 

That, and the fact that even if he had been brave enough to move out, Eddie’s not so sure any of his college friends would really have wanted to live with him anyway. Sharing a house with a hypochondriacal, overwrought guy who was prone to anger and overwhelming bouts of anxiety? Not exactly high on any college students list of priorities. 

It’s a reminder of the things he’s missed out on over the years. Most of which is thanks to his mom and her insistence that he was always something fragile that needed protecting from the dangers of the outside world; capable of being tarnished by external forces that he never quite understood. It was never solely about the pollutants, the hazards, the diseases - or maybe it was, but Sonia Kaspbrak’s definition of what constituted a _disease_ was about more than just medically identified disorders. 

(He does not think of the leper, he does not think of the leper, _he does not think of the leper_ ).

At least now he can admit all of this internally, no longer defending his mother with every fibre of his being like he once had. That has to be an indicator of progress, right?

Damn. He really should see a therapist. Maybe they could answer these bullshit questions better than he can.

“You okay over there, Spaghed? Not having any second thoughts? Because I can turn the car around right now. Just say the word.”

If Eddie didn’t know any better, he’d say Richie looks nervous. His face is looking a little pinched; the tendons in his neck straining as his gaze switches between the road, the mirrors, and Eddie himself. He appreciates that Richie is taking road safety partly seriously, at least, though he’d really prefer that his gaze was consistently on the highway. 

“Fine.” He says quickly. He fiddles with his hands in his lap, looking out of the passenger window - surprised to see that they’ve left the airport far behind by now. Shit. No wonder Richie seems concerned. What, has Eddie just been sitting here in silence, staring at the road ahead for the last ten minutes? He needs to get out of his own head. “Sorry. I’m tired, I guess.”

“Well, it was either that, or you were getting bored of me already, and I knew that couldn’t have been right. I’m prime entertainment.” Richie flashes him a grin. He has one hand on the top of the steering wheel, the other resting on his knee, fingers curled lightly around the lower part of the wheel to keep it steady. Eddie should hate it. It’s not the proper way to drive at all, and it’s intrinsically reckless, and - maybe he doesn’t care.

It's Richie. It’s not worth the argument, that’s all.

“Prime entertainment my ass.” He mutters instead, turning back to the window.

The horizon is amber-tinted and pink as the sun starts to set, and it reminds him of the sunrise in New York those few days ago. Strikingly beautiful. It’s reassuring to know that the sun sets and rises the same everywhere.

He sounds like Ben. Ben would definitely stick that in a poem and make it vastly more dreamy.

With the car’s A/C blasting on high he can enjoy the view without being distracted by the oppressive heat that seems to be rising from the tarmac in waves even now. God. If this is what it’s like _now_ , he’s dreading the afternoon tomorrow when the sun is at its peak and completely unavoidable. He hopes that this evening’s temperature is just an anomaly.

Then again -- he has time to get used to it if not.

The sun is disappearing behind the hillside and shit, he hasn’t quite realised how hilly some parts of LA are - he’s going to appreciate the fuck out of that, he thinks blindly. Mind already skipping back to the running shoes packed firmly in his suitcase, ruminating the possibility of all the new routes he’s going to get to explore. It’ll be challenging. He can practically feel his quadriceps straining at the mere thought of it.

“It's nice, right?”

Eddie blinks, looking back towards Richie, who just lifts a hand off of the wheel to gesture towards the horizon. “This.” Like he’s trying to be glib about it. “I mean, sure, LA is a cesspit of greed and delusion, fuelled by consumerism and ruled by our capitalist overlords, but - the view is nice.”

Eddie doesn’t have to think about it. 

“Yeah,” he says, watching idly as Richie taps his left indicator upward with his forefinger, biceps flexing under that outrageous shirt when he spins the steering wheel around to the side smoothly. “Yeah, the view is great.”

*

The intensely urbanised, built-up areas of the city start to fade to the background as they move towards the outskirts, a respectable neighbourhood on a gradual incline; away from the extremity of downtown LA but not so far as to be wholly outside the city boundaries. Richie lives in the actual suburbs now; like he’s some middle-class, well to-do businessman with a white picket fence and a family or something, and not a comedian with an almost failed career (almost, because his agent is so sure it’s on the upswing again, after his painfully tragic near-breakdown in front of one of his biggest audiences yet. Richie’s not convinced Steve will be as sure when Richie breaks the news to him that he’s gay and _yeah, bro_ , he wants to come out. He still hasn’t managed it yet).

There’s probably a joke in there somewhere.

The closer they get the more Richie finds himself slowing down, and it’s not wholly for Eddie’s benefit. 

Over the course of approximately forty five minutes he feels like he’s ridden the most whack rollercoaster of his life, introducing him to a metric of tumultuous emotions at breakneck speed. The kind not previously experienced by him since puberty. The uncertainty mixed with nerves when he had been waiting at the airport for Eddie that had only too easily transformed into dizzying affection upon seeing his face and getting to hold him, at least for a short while. He immediately feels guilty for savoring it, for wanting it to mean something more; but fuck that. He can appreciate whatever he wants in his own damn head, especially considering the last time he’d gotten to touch him like that Eddie’s blood had been coated all over the both of them, permeating every piece of fabric it had touched, drying and tacky, and Richie hadn’t been convinced that Eddie was going to even live, let alone that he would be here with him right now _in LA._

So, yeah. If he wants to get lost in the warmth of their embrace for a while, he damn well will.

But that was back at the airport. Since then, everything has felt relaxed and comfortable and easy. Maybe too easy. Slipping back into old patterns, nicknames rolling off of tongues with insults meant to humor, not harm. 

And then this. Now.

His gut is churning unpleasantly, the tug and pull getting harsher the closer they get to his place. It’s more than purely nerves this time; he feels fraught with it. He hadn’t thought it would matter, but he finds himself suddenly, undeniably, wanting Eddie to _like_ his place; his home. It’s taken him so many years to feel like he belongs here, and he’s built his house from the ground up as a place that he can feel - safe. 

Fuck, that sounds gay. A grimace crosses his face. He can say that because he is gay, he thinks. He isn’t sure. He still doesn’t know the requirements of being a member of the gay community; even if he’s technically still a closeted one. 

It’s complicated. 

Anyway. He loves his home. Truly, honestly loves it. It’s an eclectic mix of his own ‘style’ - which is a strong word for it - and random objects he’s curated over the years, things he’d found himself obsessed with obtaining when he’d first laid eyes upon them. He’s had a little help, admittedly; his agent brought in an interior designer in and, fair, at first he’d thought it was going to be fucking awful and they’d end up making everything shades of white and ‘minimalist’ (which, by the way, he still doesn’t understand the point of). But they’d actually listened to him, taken his ideas on board and taken the time to get to know him and what he’d wanted in a way that he had grown accustomed not to expect from people in this world. 

He’d chosen an open plan layout in the end. 

He likes having the space, likes that there’s a lot of glass filtering natural light into the building from all directions, a wall of windows leading out to the garden. Every room has a collection of decorations that capture the essence of who Richie is; signed posters from his favourite musicians, a guitar that he can’t play but is attached to anyway, expressionist artwork that he used to worry would make him look pretentious as fuck but doesn’t give a shit about anymore, because he’s allowed to like whatever he wants to like in the safety of his own home. The garden is arguably his favourite -- it has a swimming pool, obviously, because this is LA -- but it’s expansive and dotted with vibrant florals, and it always seems to get the best of the sun. He spends most of his time out there these days, even when he’s writing; often late at night when he can squint up at the sky to try and pinpoint some stars in the polluted LA atmosphere.

It’s his. He loves it. He’s _proud_ of it - and he doesn’t get to say that about much in his life. 

He’s allowed to want Eddie to like it. The realisation of exactly how much he wants that leaves him hollow for a moment.

His hand slips on the gear stick as he pulls the car up into the drive, and he’s grateful for the fact that Eddie is barely paying attention to him, instead looking out of the window - has been for the better part of the drive. It’s probably only that he’s taking in the sights of the city (what little he can see under coverage of the sable night anyway) but Richie worries a bit. It wouldn’t be completely out of the question for Eddie to have already changed his mind, to have realised what a mistake this is. He hopes that’s not the case.

Besides. Richie doesn’t really think it’s a mistake. Not for Eddie. For him? Well, the jury is still out on that one. He’ll come back to it in a few weeks. 

“So,” He swallows. For all his teasing earlier at the airport, he’s now the one sweating. “This is it. Welcome to my humble abode, home sweet home, mi casa es su casa - you know the drill.” He’s rambling and they aren’t even out of the car yet. Perfect.

Eddie just looks at him, amusement lighting up his eyes. “Are we going in or are we just going to sit in the car all night?” 

“Smartass. Come on.” Richie chuckles, already shoving the door open and drawing himself up out of the vehicle. It’s hardly a lengthy drive, but he still winces as he stretches, feeling the pop and pull of the joints along his spine. His body was not made to be compacted into small spaces like this. “Here.” Reaching into his pocket he tugs his keys out and tosses them over the roof of the car at Eddie. “I’ll get the case and bring it up.”

Eddie catches them - by the skin of his teeth - shooting a glare at Richie for his efforts, and Richie watches him walk up the steps towards the front door, in a way that is totally healthy and platonic. His eyes catch on the meandering line of his calves; the way his thighs stretch at the material of his cargo shorts with every step.

_Fellas, is it gay to check out your best friend from behind?_

He snorts at himself and moves to pursue Eddie, suitcase in tow. It’s heavy, but he’s pleasantly surprised that it’s only the one case, considering Eddie doesn’t strike him as the type of guy who travels light - but then he thinks of the divorce proceedings and the swiftness with which Eddie had moved into his apartment in New York, and figures it’s better not to ask. 

It’s something Eddie hasn’t spoken about much, as far as Richie is aware. At least, little has been said in the group chat, and even less to him directly. Partly, he knows that that may change now, considering the two of them will be living in close quarters. It makes him apprehensive. He knows fuck all about marriage and divorce in general, and he can’t trust himself to be unbiased about _Eddie’s_ in particular - already having made some fairly inappropriate comments in the chat following Eddie’s announcement, because granted, he doesn’t know Myra, but he knew Sonia Kaspbrak, and if the two of them are anywhere near as alike as Richie assumes them to be - _hoo, boy_. 

He can’t believe Eddie didn’t get out sooner. Or maybe he can. Sonia Kaspbrak may be long dead but Richie would be naive to think that Eddie was ever free of her when she was alive. 

Now? He’d like to hope that’s changed. The thought of her still digging her claws into the meat of her son’s arm from beyond the grave is a disturbing one.

By the time he’s shouldering his way through the door and propping the suitcase carefully up against the wall in the hallway, Eddie has already moved further into the house. 

That apprehensive feeling is back, the kind that makes him want to shed his skin because it prickles so much; he always gets like this when he’s letting someone into his home, because it’s by and large the most _him_ thing he has. He feels like his soul is bared in the architecture of this place, and he doesn’t bring people here often as a result. Not because he doesn’t want to show it off - a part of him does, really, because he thinks it’s fucking great. But because he’s not sure he can handle any criticism. Not about this. Sure, he’s been called names (some of them well deserved) and slated in the comedy community for years (also probably well deserved), and he’s developed a thick enough skin to deal with that; like water off a duck's back baby, especially when he reminds himself - like a mantra, since Derry - that that’s not him they’re judging, even if they don’t know it. That’s Trashmouth Tozier, uncensored and wildly exaggerated.

But this is the point, isn’t it? If he’s serious about firing his writer, about coming out -- and he is -- then that means that he has to be comfortable with living _authentically_. The idea of being so seen is terrifying, but this is Eddie. It’s a safe place to start.

“Richie.”

He doesn’t feel like he’s had a safe place to start before now.

“Richie, hey-“

Eddie steps into his line of vision. The deep vee in his brow immediately unwrinkles itself when Richie meets his gaze.

“Sorry, I was daydreaming about your mom.” He says on reflex, delighting in the withering expression it earns him. “The good old times and all that.”

“She’s dead, dickwad, have some respect.” Eddie’s folding his arms across his chest and glaring darkly. “To think I was literally about to say something fucking nice to you.”

Richie faux gaps, bringing a hand to his chest. When he speaks, he’s adopted a southern twang, vowels elongated and dense. “Why, I never! Edward Kaspbrak, being _nice_?! The good Lord is really shining down on us today!”

“Jesus.” Eddie mutters.

“‘Richie’ is fine.” Richie replies with glee.

“I’ve been in LA for all of two hours and you’re already pushing your luck,” Eddie’s lip twitches like he can’t quite help it. He’s always found it difficult to stay stony-faced in the wake of Richie’s humor, even when they were kids and nobody else was laughing but him. “I was just -- this is really nice, Rich.”

“You sound surprised.” 

“Not surprised,” Eddie shakes his head, before amending, “Well, maybe a little… guess I was expecting something a bit less lived in.”

“Yeah?” Richie arches a brow at that. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, man. I guess I assumed, you know, with all that time you’ve spent touring the country… I don’t know.” Eddie repeats. He shrugs, twisting his fingers together in front of him. 

Richie half wants to lean across and take them apart. He doesn’t. The tight apprehension in his chest unfurls with Eddie’s stamp of approval.

“Everyone needs a landing place.” He leads them into the lounge, tapping at the screen of his phone. “I figure you’re gonna want to crash soon, but you should eat first. There’s a Thai place not far from here that delivers…”

They spend a good half hour or so putting in the order, and he lets Eddie commandeer his phone to scroll through the menu and add his own choices to the basket. It takes longer than it normally would because he keeps changing his mind, asking Richie for his opinion on about ten different dishes before Richie realises Eddie isn’t even listening to his recommendations and he wrestles the phone back from him. Eddie is surprisingly wiry for his small stature, but mostly he just plays dirty, jabbing his elbows and fingers into the soft tissue beneath Richie’s ribs until he’s yelping; grinning shrewdly as he does it. He’s as ruthless as ever. It’s spectacular.

They manage to place the order eventually, and it takes another ten minutes or so before they can agree on something to watch; Eddie turning his nose up at the majority of Richie’s suggestions, which he really only proposes to get a reaction anyway, listing off the most scandalous options that come to mind. It’s highly amusing to watch Eddie splutter and dive into a rant that seems all too prepared when Richie tries to convince him that he actually really does want to watch _The Human Centipede_ . Eddie gets about two minutes into his speech (“ _Richie, look me in the eyes and say that again. Fucking say it. Tell me it’s a cinematic masterpiece one more fucking time and I swear to God_ \--”) before he realises that Richie’s pulling his leg, and he retaliates by shoving his foot in Richie’s face and it’s --

It’s heavy with nostalgia.

That one move throws Richie back twenty seven years until he feels like he’s thirteen again, swinging in the cramped hammock in the clubhouse, battling with Eddie to get the space even though they and everyone else know that the two of them will end up sharing it -- after squabbling for a decent amount of time and pissing the rest of the losers off first, obviously. He remembers Stan describing it as one of their ‘weird mating rituals’ once; remembers how he’d flipped him off after he’d said it because it was a little too close to comfort for him specifically.

He wonders if it’s always going to be like this now. Flashbacks presenting themselves at the most random of moments; it could be like that for all of them. God knows they have a shitload of material from that one summer alone to keep their minds occupied, even if half of that is stuff he’d wager they’d all rather keep repressed.

Idly, he makes a mental note to ask Bev the next time he talks to her.

By the time the knock at the door sounds the arrival of the food, they’re five minutes into the second episode of _Barry_ (“it’s good,” he’d assured Eddie, “the actor is kind of annoying, but it’s good”) and Richie is watching Eddie from the corner of his eye, drinking him in like the image is sustenance to him. His profile is illuminated beneath the yellow light of the ceiling fixture and the glow of the television, and even from his limited view, Richie can tell that he’s engrossed; there’s a tiny crease between his brows and his mouth is relaxed, lips parted as he watches the scene play out on the television. Every now and again he’ll let out a slip of laughter that makes Richie want to grin stupidly.

He also wants to _touch_ stupidly.

The knock is enough to startle them both, but Richie’s the one who rises, waving a hand at Eddie when he starts to get up too. He tips the driver handsomely because he’s the kind of guy that does that now, and returns to the lounge to find Eddie making room for the takeout containers on the coffee table.

“Green curry?” Richie hands Eddie one of the boxes, whistling lowly as he slouches back into the couch. “I’m impressed. You weren’t kidding, huh?”

“About what?” Eddie tilts his head to the side. Paired with those doe eyes, the movement makes him look like a dog, albeit a cute one.

Richie gestures towards him exaggeratedly, making a sweeping motion from top to toe. “Leaving New York, quitting your job, eating _Thai_ food -- you really are a changed man.”

Eddie’s face flushes. He lifts one shoulder in some sort of half-hearted shrug, averting his gaze. “Yeah, well. Going back to your home town and facing off with a killer clown kind of puts things into perspective. You should know.”

“Hey,” Richie raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not digging you out. Derry, uh -- changed us all.” Of the wider group, Stan’s probably made the least amendments to his life, but that’s because he was _happy_ with it before. The rest of them? Not so much. “Good for you -- that’s all I meant.”

Eddie eyes him for a moment and it’s almost wary, but then he smiles; small and sweet. “Thanks. I think so too.” He grimaces. “I mean, it’s crazy -- it’s _crazy_ , right? But I feel --” He cuts himself off with a laugh that seems like it’s unexpected. “-- so fucking relieved. Already.” The plastic in his hand crumples inwards with am particularly tight spasm of his fingers, and he peers at Richie uncertainly. “Is that -- is that normal?”

“Not at all,” Richie shrugs cheerily. He reaches for his own container -- chilli prawn laksa -- and continues speaking around a mouthful, making Eddie’s jaw twitch. “But what does it matter? Now’s as good a time as any to start doing what you actually want.”

He thinks he’s saying it for both of them. _All_ of them, even if the rest of the losers can’t hear it. They may be in their forties and well past their prime, but that doesn’t mean they can’t start living their lives the way they want to now. It’s a shame, he thinks, that out of all of them, Stan’s the only one who had something good going for him all this time. One out of seven ain’t bad, but it’s still pretty fucking dire.

“Right, yeah.” Eddie mumbles. He doesn’t look like he’s in the conversation now, misty-eyed in a way that tells Richie that his mind is elsewhere.

He doesn’t push it. He figures they all have their shit to work through, and if Eddie wants to talk it out, he will. Eventually. Richie’s job is to make sure he knows that he’s here to listen to him when that time comes. He may not be _good_ at all of this touchy-feely stuff, but he’ll always try when it comes to any of them. He doubts he’s any of their first choices for this, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

They get through another three episodes of season one before Richie catches Eddie yawning pitifully and orders him to bed. If it were any other time, he’s sure Eddie would have found it in him to resist the request, for no reason other than _because_ \-- even now, Richie fixates on the way Eddie pauses, shoulders rippling beneath his shirt like he’s priming himself for a battle. Then he seems to think better of it and nods instead. Richie can hardly believe how little they’ve all changed in some ways.

He leads the way up the stairs, carrying the suitcase awkwardly in his arms, and motions towards the various doors with limited explanation, indicating where the bathroom is, where his own room is, the study. Finally, he comes to a stop outside the door at the very end of the hallway. It’s the furthest away from his own bedroom, having its own corner of the floor in a way that he thinks Eddie will probably appreciate.

“This’ll be you. There’s an en-suite through there,” he nods towards a separate door in the room, placing the suitcase barely in over the threshold but remaining in the hallway. “-- and the wardrobe in here is empty, you can use the whole thing… hopefully this will be comfortable enough.”

Eddie takes his time looking around the room. There’s not that much to see in here with it being the spare bedroom and the one place in the house Richie doesn’t actively inhabit, and he feels on edge in the quiet. He’s still on tenterhooks, he realises; waiting for the other shoe to drop and for Eddie to start panicking and saying that he needs to go home -- back to New York. 

But then Eddie’s shifting to look at him, lips barely turned up in a smile; he looks softer in the gentle glow of the lamp on the bedside table. His features are more relaxed like this, less angular the sleepier he gets, and Richie has to lean against the door jamb for a moment; hit with a wave of unsteadiness.

“It’s perfect.” The sincerity in Eddie’s voice is a little too much right now. “Thanks, Rich. For all of this. I really mean it.”

Richie swallows, abruptly choking up. He rubs at the back of his neck, nods, “You don’t need to thank me. We’re friends, right? All our life.”

“Sure,” Eddie smiles. “Now get out. I’m going to bed.”

He closes the door in the wake of the offended sound that Richie makes, grin aggressively devious even when he’s as fatigued as he clearly is.

Richie thinks _I could get used to this_.

It’s a dangerous thought.

He retires to his own room to chastise himself in private.

*

It takes them a few long weeks to get used to one another and their often vastly differing patterns.

Eddie is almost always awake before Richie, he finds. It’s not something unexpected, and it’s not something he necessarily dislikes, either. He’s never minded having the first few hours of the day to himself, a period of time that he can use to reflect without having to worry that he’s wearing his thoughts too clearly upon his face. He rises with the sun, though not half as pretty.

It takes him a few days before he gathers the courage to leave the house on his own. He spends those first mornings wearing down the floor of the kitchen with his pacing, waiting for Richie to wake up and give him something to do with the day. But before long his limbs are aching to be used, and the same intrusive thoughts keep swimming around his head, so he forces himself to go for a run. He takes the time to search some routes in the area beforehand. He doesn’t anticipate that he’ll get himself lost around here, but he doesn’t want to tempt fate either. From there, it’s easy to slip back into his familiar routine, the same that he had back in New York -- with a few noticeable differences. 

The lack of a job, for one. 

As someone who hasn’t taken a decent vacation in however many years he’d worked for the last company, Eddie isn’t used to having so little to do. He’s practically vibrating with restless energy on the fourth day into the move alone; the first day he starts running again. At least this is somewhere that Richie comes in useful, because Richie seems to spend most of his time working from home at the moment and it means that Eddie doesn’t have to fend for himself in this foreign place that he’s not quite comfortable with yet. Eddie’s not altogether sure whether Richie being at home is because of him or because of something else, but he doesn’t dwell on it either way, because if he _is_ to blame for it -- it’s better for him not to assume that. It makes him faintly light-headed to even consider that as an option.

Usually Richie is writing or talking (read: arguing) with his agent, conversations that Eddie tries hard to look like he’s not listening to, even though he clearly is. He can’t help it. He has a lot of thoughts about Steve without ever having actually met the guy and, honestly, none of them are that complimentary. Richie always seems jittery and uncomfortable for these conversations; he starts in the office every time without fail, but he always ends up pacing around the house looking increasingly redder in the face, with his fingers pressing white around their grip on his phone. It’s a tenseness that Eddie is used to seeing from himself and not others -- certainly not _Richie_.

But even when he’s writing, Richie seems only too happy to have the distraction of Eddie being around. Eddie feels bad about it for all of two seconds, reasoning that eventually he _will_ have a job, and then he won’t be here to drag Richie’s attention away from his own work so much, but for now -- it’s good. 

It’s exactly what Eddie needs.

He spends a lot of time cleaning that first week. The house isn’t dirty, not by any means, but he has to use his hands, feels twitchy with this need to do something. Cleaning always helps him, especially when he’s back to thinking about things he doesn’t want to think about. It’s the methodical nature behind it, the way he can focus on the persistent action of the scrubbing and the mopping and the dusting without having to pay too much attention to anything else. Clean house, clean mind (not that he holds much stock in that, his thoughts as frequent and consuming as ever regardless of the orderliness of his surroundings).

Towards the end of the first week of this, Richie stops him where he’s been rubbing manically at one of the pans they’d used to make dinner, blanketing Eddie’s hands in his larger ones carefully and oh so gently. It’s only then that Eddie realises how red raw his own hands are, sore from the constant washing and cleaning, and he only swallows and nods when Richie tells him he needs to stop. 

It turns out that that first week is the hardest anyway; he doesn’t feel the need to clean so much from there on out. But for that week, when he’s alone with his thoughts -- and even sometimes when he isn’t -- he can’t stop thinking back on his last words with Myra; can’t stop hesitating on deciding whether he’s actually doing the right thing. At least, he feels like this until he musters up the courage to voice some of these notions to Richie, who gives him one level stare and tells him that if it feels like he’s doing the right thing, then he probably is. And that he’s still the bravest person Richie knows. It’s embarrassing; causes Eddie to shake his head and flush rose pink, but he also thinks maybe Richie could be right.

Maybe not the bravest. But these decisions he’s been making have taken more guts than he ever thought he was capable of having. It feels like this -- like he’s helped to kill the clown and now nothing can stop him; like he’s proven what he felt he needed to prove and now he can just focus on doing the right thing for _him._

It gets easier from there.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t any issues. There are definitely some teething problems.

Richie is _messy_ , for one. Not dirty, but untidy. There are sheafs of paper on so many surfaces across the house, not solely contained to the office, all of them marked with scrawled handwriting that is barely legible to Eddie. His clothes are everywhere, too -- he’ll just take off his hoodie and throw it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, leaving it there for days if Eddie isn’t there to tell him to put it away. He’ll take his shoes off at the door, but not put them away; there are important looking documents shoved haphazardly in drawers all over the house, no organisation to anything in a way that makes Eddie’s stomach spasm uncomfortably.

That first weekend, Eddie goes through all of the cupboards in the kitchen and tosses out anything that’s even remotely out of date, because basic housekeeping like this is apparently not something Richie does often, and -- it’s fine. It’s not like Richie is the most difficult person in the world to live with, because Eddie thinks _he_ might take that title for himself, and living with Richie -- living with Richie isn’t punishing at all.

Richie does clean, perhaps not as anally as Eddie, but well enough. He does the laundry, changes the bed sheets in a timely manner, washes out containers for the recycling.

He _cooks_. 

God. 

Everytime Eddie thinks about Richie’s cooking he feels the need to close his eyes and savor it for a moment (even just the damn thought of it), because it’s that good. 

Cooking isn’t something that Eddie has ever been equipped for, something he blames almost wholly on his mom and her forcing all those false allergies and intolerances on him -- things that he’s only recently started to realise don’t exist in the slightest, having been convinced that he would die if he so much looked at a peanut for years, so. It’s not his _fault_ that he can’t really cook, when he’s been eating so blandly for the better part of his life, but Richie -- he didn’t expect it from Richie, honestly. 

He cooks like he loves doing it, putting new dishes in front of Eddie every single night, and they’re all somehow the best thing he’s ever tasted. He thinks Richie likes that, though; knowing that Eddie enjoys the food. He’s careful to tell Richie precisely how delicious the food is every night, catching the way Richie shrugs it off with a smart comment and a laugh, but blushes under the attention too.

Living with him is incredibly doable, if only for the food alone. (It’s not just about the food, though).

The second night was the first time that Eddie had the opportunity to experience Richie’s apparent talents in the kitchen; he’d taken a nap late in the afternoon, still not quite recovered from the flight the day before. He thinks it was the smell that had woken him up, now -- a peppery, savory fragrance so strong that it had reached him all the way from the kitchen. When he’d traipsed down the stairs, rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes, he hadn’t really expected to walk in to see Richie at the oven, with three pans on the go and an assortment of ingredients balancing on the counter, looking every bit as though he belonged there. Eddie had stood there resting against the door with a stupefied expression on his face for at least three minutes before Richie had even noticed him.

He’s still not used to watching Richie cook. It’s something strangely unnerving to him. He can’t explain why.

But the point is, it works. Them living together.

Eddie’s even grown fond of Richie’s truly awful singing in the shower, so loud that it seems to reverberate through the entire house. This is something he vows never to confess, for fear that Richie will run with it and start crooning at him at all times of the day. 

As if on cue, he hears the tell tale sounds of Richie getting up, glancing at his wristwatch. 9:00 am. It seems about right. 

Eddie’s been up since six thirty, already having been on his run and showered by now, but even three weeks in everything about this is beginning to feel normal. They’ve somehow settled into a homely regime, layering together their own systems and practices in such a way that they complement one another now.

He hears Richie enter the kitchen behind him from where he’s set up in front of the stove, attention concentrated on the bacon and eggs that he’s frying up. He can manage this -- breakfast. It’s become something of a standard for them; Eddie’s up earliest so it makes sense that he can get the breakfast going. He doesn’t do it every day. Usually, they’ll eat something less heavy, like granola or cereal or toast. Before he’d arrived, Eddie’s not sure that Richie ever actually ate breakfast beyond drinking a cup of black coffee and calling it a day, and he’s made it an unspoken mission of his to set that right. It’s the least he can do.

“Morning.” Richie half grunts and, sure enough, when Eddie turns to look at him he has his hands firmly planted around his first coffee of the day. He’s leaning against the counter watching Eddie, their eyes meeting when he turns. “That smells good.”

“It should.” Eddie replies mildly. The compliment, however small, does feel nice. He’s starting to understand why Richie likes to cook so much (though the praise is only partly the reason for Richie, he knows, considering he was cooking purely for himself before Eddie came along). “You’ll be eating some, so don’t fill up on too much of that.”

“Yessir.” Richie mock salutes him. He’s still a little sluggish; sleep-rumpled and hoarse. Eddie kind of likes it. He puts it down to Richie being quieter like this.

He takes pity on him, though, because Richie doesn’t look like he’s quite up to it yet; hasn’t managed to swallow down the last of his coffee. Eddie turns the grill off, using a spatula to dish the bacon and eggs up onto two plates, a slice of toasted bread on each, and then pushes Richie firmly towards the dining table.

They eat in comfortable silence for a while, broken only by one particularly violent yawn of Richie’s. It looks like it could be painful. Eddie swears that he can hear his jaw click with it.

Eddie gives him a pointed look.

Richie pointedly ignores it.

“Richie.”

“Eddie.”

“What time did you go to sleep?”

“Hm.” Richie leans back against the chair, stretching with his arms held high above his head. If Eddie didn’t know any better, he’d think he was trying to buy himself some time. “Two, maybe? Three? I don’t know. It was last night, I can’t remember that.”

“It was six hours ago.” Eddie glares. “You need to go to sleep at an earlier time than that, and consistently, so that your body gets the --”

“The exact amount of rest it needs in order to work efficiently’,” Richie adopts a higher pitched tone, letting his eyelids close. “Yes, Doctor Kaspbrak, I get it.”

“Was that supposed to sound like me?” Eddie narrows his eyes, pushing his plate away from him. “That didn’t sound like me at all. I don’t sound like that.”

Richie cracks an eye. “Oh boy, do I have some news for you. Say, have you ever recorded yourself speaking?”

Eddie bristles. “No! But I know I don’t sound like that.”

“Okay.” Richie agrees amicably after a moment, before changing the subject at a rapid pace, ignoring the way Eddie huffs at him. “What are we doing today?”

That shuts Eddie up for a moment, if only because he doesn’t know.

Since he’s arrived, and with all this spare time on his hands, Richie has been showing him the so-called ‘sights of the city’. Most of which have been incredibly underwhelming, like Eddie knew (and _said_ ) they would be, but Richie’s been insistent; Eddie thinks he has an itinerary stashed away somewhere and, if he’s right, he’s moderately impressed by that. It shows the kind of organisation he would not have pegged Richie as being capable of. 

Not all of it has been so bad -- the Griffith Observatory had Eddie ‘squealing like a little girl’ (Richie’s words, not his), and just about made up for the Walk of Fame the day before, which had been exhausting and, frankly, a little boring after the first few stars -- ( _“they’re all the same. They’re literally the same. What’s so great about this? No, we’re not doing the whole thing, have you seen these sweat patches?_ ”) and, most of all, it’s been really nice to spend the time with Richie outside of the house.

Even though they slotted back into one another so effortlessly back in Derry -- the way all of them had -- Eddie can’t deny that he’d been worried that it wouldn’t be so easy this time around. Seeing Richie briefly over dinner before they battled Pennywise again? Sure. Living with him for the foreseeable future only a month later? He could see where they might hit some pitfalls. 

But it turns out he needn’t have worried at all.

They quarrel and bicker like it’s old times, but in general, they just have _fun_. Eddie can’t remember the last time he had this much fun.

He assumes that’ll end when Richie’s work actually picks up again and when he himself gets a job and -- when he moves out, which he categorically is not considering as an option yet. Another thing to feel guilty about, except Richie doesn’t seem like he’s actively trying to get Eddie moved on for the time being, so. He figures it’s fine. He’s trying not to think about anything shattering what they have going on here. He’s dealt with enough changes in his life recently to feel justified in selfishly wanting this for a little while longer.

God. He can barely handle it -- the fact that he’s somehow finding stability with _Richie Tozier_ , of all people. The same Richie who pushed him off a cliff top and into the grimy water below when they were eleven years old and Eddie had been too scared to jump himself.

“Don’t you have anything planned?” Eddie asks with a hint of suspicion. “You’ve come up with everything so far. This is your city, you know it better than I do.”

“Think we’re running out of tourist attractions.” Richie admits. He gets a glint in his eyes then that only serves to deepen Eddie’s reservations. “There is somewhere we could go... It’ll be fun.”

Eddie sighs. “If it’ll be ‘fun’ why are you trying to convince me before you even tell me what it is.”

“Because I hate it when you shoot me down.” He’s joking; pursing his lips exaggeratedly and loosing a sigh that sounds like it’s all air, but Eddie still feels a bit of remorse.

“I don’t shoot you down.” He scowls. Then he reconsiders it. “Not when you have a good idea, anyway.”

“All my ideas are good, Eds.” Richie looks at him sagely. “I’ve never had one bad idea.”

“What about that --”

“Not one.”

“Rich, you literally --”

“Seriously, they’re all gold.” He’s grinning, large and smug, and Eddie wants to punch him. He can’t reach from across the table, so he settles on kicking him in the shin instead, smirking when Richie lets out a yelp and leans down to rub at the abused skin.

Eddie bites back his smirk, adopting a placid expression when Richie looks at him, features pulled into something more affronted. “Fine. What is it?” 

“I’ll tell you.” Richie’s still rubbing at his leg. It wasn’t even that _hard_. “If you agree to go first.”

Eddie blinks. “What? No. That’s stupid.”

Richie shrugs. “Can’t tell you then.”

God, he’s so annoying. He was always annoying, but Eddie can’t believe he’s _still annoying_. He sighs, low and long-suffering, and says, “God, fine. Just tell me.”

He’s going to regret this. He already knows he’s going to regret this, because Richie seems like the cat that’s got the cream suddenly. His whole face has lit up, laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, eyes that are sparkling in the light filtering through the windows, and he’s flashing Eddie a grin that shows all his teeth. He looks complacently happy, his whole demeanor changing with it as he leans back in his chair again. Eddie shifts in his own seat, averting his gaze.

“The zoo.”

Eddie’s lip curls as though on instinct. 

His entire body almost physically recoils and he -- he stops himself. Because he knows that this is exactly the reaction Richie is expecting, and he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of it. Even if the thought of going to the zoo makes his palms clammy and his gut churn with displeasure. He can already _taste_ the acrid smells of the animals and their muck, and the sweat mingled with deodorant rising off of crowds of people, and it’s gross. Zoos are, by nature, disgusting. The last time he went to one he was a kid, and he’d had to practically beg his mom to let him go, and in the end she’d said yes as long as she could go with him. She’d spent the entire time with her hand curled tightly over his shoulder, forcing him to look in each and every one of the enclosures, telling him her own little facts about the animals, the kind that weren’t printed on the brightly coloured placards. All of them revolved around how filthy and germ-filled and dangerous they were.

He’d left with none of the excitement with which he’d arrived, but ten times the fear.

“Okay.” He says, nodding his head. It feels wooden, even to him. “That sounds… fine.”

“What!? Really? _‘Fine’_?” Richie splutters around the mouthful of coffee he’s this moment inhaled.

It’s worth it just to see Richie’s expression. His mouth is half open, eyes wide, and he looks decidedly gormless enough that it steels Eddie’s resolve that little bit more, making the decision for him.

He nods, satisfied. “Really. It’ll be fun, right?” It’s maybe slightly charged.

Instead of waiting for a response, he vacates the table, leaving the dishes there for Richie to deal with. Serves him right.

It takes Richie all of an hour to get ready. Eddie’s been showered and dressed for hours, so he takes the time to scroll through the messages on his phone, focusing almost unreservedly on the group chat with the losers. 

By now they all know that Eddie’s living with Richie, because that was never going to be something that they could keep from them, but they’ve been surprisingly quiet on that front. Eddie was expecting -- _more_ , somehow. More of what he doesn’t know. But they’d all taken the news like it was nothing, like it was anticipated by each and every one of them, and that… he doesn’t know what to do with that, really. Perhaps he and Richie were always a little co-dependent, but so far as Eddie can see, all of them were; are, even, since they’ve found one another again. It shouldn’t bother him that none of them were surprised to hear it, but it does, deep down. Again, he doesn’t know why, so it’s not something he can vocalise or demand an explanation for, not without feeling like an idiot.

He scans the latest messages -- a few photos of Bill’s new puppy (it’s huge; Eddie’s mind helpfully provides ‘St Bernard’ when he scrabbles for a breed) scattered amongst replies that are mainly a direct response to those -- and a handful of smaller life updates. 

Mike is apparently heading to Texas next on his journey (which Eddie doesn’t understand at all, but he figures _good for him,_ Mike can go wherever the hell he wants considering they left him in Derry all this time); Stan is trying to arrange for them all to finally meet Patty in person, rather than over the phone and via video chat, probably a weekend in Atlanta; and Bill is keeping them highly updated on the puppy’s -- Georgina’s -- house training, which… probably not something that any of them need to know.

It’s kind of sweet, though. Eddie’s glad of the updates from them all really (yes, even the ones from Bill), because every one of them is like a little reminder that they haven’t forgotten. That they’re all doing surprisingly well. They deserve it. All of them. 

Himself included, he thinks, and that in itself is a sign of progress.

By the time Richie is ready to leave, Eddie’s caught up on the swarm of notifications from the past day, sending a few responses to things he thinks require them. He’s smiling tenderly at his phone when he hears Richie clearing his throat, lifting his head to see him raising a brow. 

“Shut up.” Eddie mutters without heat, taking extra care to jostle Richie when he moves past him, ignoring Richie’s offended cry of “but I didn’t even say anything!”.

The car ride into the city centre is quiet save for the low volume of the music humming through the radio. Richie keeps looking at him. He thinks Eddie can’t see, but he can, and it’s only setting him more on edge. He kind of wants to snap at him, to tell him to keep his eyes on the road for once, but he doesn’t. He bites back the harshness that wants to present itself in that way, knowing it’s born only out of his own anxiety. It’s ridiculous. He shouldn’t feel this way just because they’re going to a goddamn zoo -- he knows this but the knowledge does nothing to settle the rising tide of agitation. 

His hands move of their own accord, fingers reaching to touch his ring, to twist it around his finger like he usually does when he feels like this and he needs to do _something_ , but the ring isn’t there, obviously, because he hasn’t worn it in nearly two months now. Instantly, his gaze feels stuck to the band of white skin around his finger, even though it’s been bare for long enough that it shouldn’t catch him off guard.

God. He can still feel Richie’s eyes on him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up to attention.

He flexes his hand before curling it into a tight fist, forcing himself to turn his head towards the window. The movement is rigid, but he can’t bring himself to relax right now. It’s not about the zoo, and it’s not even about the fucking ring, it’s just about _him_. It always is.

It makes him feel a little crazy. He doesn’t want Richie to see him like that; even if it wouldn’t be the first time, won’t be the last either.

They park at the zoo easily enough, Richie swinging the car smoothly into one of the bays. He’s actually a really good driver. Eddie’s been more than mildly impressed this entire time, but today it has less of an impact on him than it usually does. 

The air is cooler than it has been in the entire time Eddie’s been in Los Angeles, the weather pleasant for a day spent under the soft blue of the open sky; but it’s the middle of the day on a Tuesday, and he figures most people are at work or in school or doing whatever it is he should probably be doing right now instead of this. It doesn’t look as busy as he had imagined it would be, thankfully. He slides his shades over his eyes for cover from the sun and from Richie’s almost as piercing gaze, feeling both stiff and shaky when he gets out of the car.

“We can go home.” Richie says finally.

They’re stood just outside the entrance now. Eddie looks up at the polished silver proclaiming they’re at the _LA Zoo_ and lets his fingers curl into his palms at his sides, where Richie can’t see them.

“Why would we do that? We just got here.” His voice cracks through the air like a whip.

Richie sways on the spot, long-limbed and more awkward than Eddie has seen him look in a while. His lip twitches. “We did.” He says agreeably. “But we don’t actually have to go in. The drive down was fascinating enough. Some might say riveting.” 

Eddie glares at him but says nothing. He raises his head slightly, tightens the fanny pack lodged around his waist, and marches towards the reception area. He doesn’t turn to see if Richie is following him; he already knows that he will be.

Sure enough, Richie’s overtaking him on his stupidly long legs when they get through the doors, already pushing forward to buy the tickets for them. Eddie would argue, usually -- he has savings, he’s doing fine, he doesn’t expect Richie to pay his way when he’s already opened up his home to him. But this is Richie’s idea, and Eddie doesn’t even want to be here right now, so he lets him pay. He tries to look a little less put out than he thinks he does; making a conscious effort to relax the muscles in his neck and his jaw, pushing his shoulders back instead of hunching them down and forward.

They’re ushered into the zoo, a small queue now forming behind them, and Eddie braces himself for -- for what, exactly? He isn't sure. It’s not like this is going to kill him (except it could, probably, really, if he actually considered it. Over the years, his mind has worked against him to let him know that anything and everything could put an end to his life if he just gives it the time and opportunity to do so).

“Here,” Richie passes him a glossy sheet of folded paper. “Got you a map.”

It’s a small gesture, but one that speaks volumes to Eddie. Because he knows Richie. He knows that Richie would prefer to roam the zoo freely without taking note of any directions, instead following whatever whim that comes to him at the time, zig zagging around the place rather than taking a definite, planned route. He’d rather do that, but he still picks up a map for Eddie anyway, as though he knows that Eddie still takes his role as group navigator as seriously as he had when they were kids; except then they were roaming the sewers of Derry and not this. This is a place that should be pleasant -- and the memory of the sewers reminds him that nothing can really be as bad as that.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak yet, unfolding the map with care. His eyes trace over the markers and symbols, noting the words that accompany them, quickly identifying where the various exhibits are. “This place is huge.”

“It took me about three hours to get around last time...” Richie nods. “But we can probably get it done in half that.”

Eddie shakes his head, frowning. “We don’t need to. Let’s just… enjoy it.”

He doesn’t know which of them he’s trying to convince more. Neither does Richie, by the looks of it. He gestures for Eddie to lead them on their way, and doesn’t mention it when Eddie inhales audibly before doing so.

It turns out to be not so bad after all.

They head towards the aviary first because, as Richie says, “ _Stan will lose his_ shit . It seems like a safe option. Birds aren’t overtly threatening. Eddie has never taken much of an interest in them, but there are so many species here -- flamingos, macaw’s, even a vulture which challenges him to a staring competition and wins. Richie starts trying to mimic the different sounds the birds make when they’re about a third of the way through, and Eddie can only hold his amusement in for so long. When Richie manages to match the sound of the hornbill with disturbing accuracy, he has to pause for a moment with the force of his own laughter, bent at the waist as his shoulders heave and Richie flushes with pleased pride.

They send a series of snaps to the group chat, both of them snorting at their screens at the excited tone of the messages Stan sends in reply. Eddie’s positive it’s the fastest Stan has replied to any of their messages ever; reeling off facts about each of the birds they show him at a rapid enough speed that Eddie knows them to be wholly off the top of his head.

He finds himself _actually_ enjoying it, rather than having to convince himself that he’s enjoying it. It’s definitely smelly and still too busy for his liking, despite it being a quiet day by all accounts, but he can let all of that fade into the background if he focuses on the animals enough, and on Richie. Richie who seems to be making every effort to get Eddie to relax without ever saying it -- purely through the medium of his gags and clumsy gesticulations, in a way that’s so familiar to Eddie that it hurts his chest a little.

It hurts that he ever forgot this. Forgot what it was like to have friends who cared about him, who put his needs first, who never thought to treat him like his mother did, but still accepted him with all that batshit craziness anyway.

The sun is at its peak when they reach the gorilla reserve, the air sweltering with it. It feels like he’s walking into a wall of heat with every step. His skin is already browning in the short time he’s been in LA, freckles cropping up across his face, his shoulders, his chest, the likes of which he hasn’t seen on himself since those long summers in Derry spent riding his bike around town and jumping into the quarry. He’d almost forgotten that his skin was capable of having this much colour; of looking this _good._

It beats the grim weather of New York right about now, but he doubts he’ll ever get used to the heat. Seriously. _Fuck_ the heat.

“Shit, look at the size of these things!” Richie half leans over the metal railing in front of the glass enclosure in which the gorillas are kept. His gaze is fixed on them as they amble around the reserve, interacting with each other and, sometimes, the people gathering around outside, all of them pointing and chatting and trying to get the attention of these animals.

“Is it weird? For you to see something that’s bigger than you for once?” Eddie snorts.

Richie’s barely listening to him. “Gorillas are fucking cool, man. Do you think I could get a monkey on stage with me?”

One of the gorillas is squaring up with another, chunky fingers splayed on wide hands. They’re staring at each other far more intensely than Eddie and the vulture did, that’s for sure. They begin to engage in some weird dancing motion; like some sort of ritual he doesn’t understand. In the background one of the others is sitting with its back pressed against a wall, chewing lazily on a bamboo shoot, basking half in the shade and half beneath the sun.

“Monkeys and gorillas aren’t the same thing.” Eddie says patiently as he watches them. He supposes they are sort of interesting. “And no, what the fuck? You’d be violating so many laws.”

He grins as Richie whines disappointedly. “Besides. Why do you need another monkey on stage? You’ll already be up there.”

“You little shit.” Richie lunges for him, trying to get him in a headlock, and Eddie kicks out at his shins on auto-pilot, fingers scrabbling over Richie’s forearms as he tries to evade him. They narrowly miss tumbling into a group of people who pass by on some kind of tour, Richie raising one hand in apology even as the other arm stays firmly wrapped around Eddie’s neck.

“Get off!” He stands on Richie’s foot. “Richie, I swear to God, if you don’t -- you’re fucking forty one years old man, get the fuck off me --”

“Eds, watch your language.” Richie tuts him, lowering his voice to a hushed tone. “There are kids around, you animal.”

“Oh, fuck you!” He finally manages to get free, sweating even more profusely and turning scarlet now. It deepens when a blonde, middle-aged woman nearby shoots him a disgusted look, hurrying her small child out of the way with her hands clapped over his ears.

He glares at Richie’s self-satisfied smile. He barely looks like he’s broken a sweat, his strong arms doing all the work for him, and he’s leaning casually back against the railing again.

“You look warm.” Richie says. “Come on, we’ll get you something to cool off.”

Eddie presses his lips together. He wants to resist, but the promise of something to chase away the fever pitch of the day is too tempting for him to pass up. “Fine. You’re buying.”

They end up washing ridiculously overpriced burgers down with cheap beer at the bistro, flicking through the rest of the many photos they (being Richie) had taken over the course of their visit, forwarding the best ones to the group chat. 

One of the photos shows Richie and Eddie standing in front of the flamingo pen, Richie’s arm around Eddie’s shoulders and Eddie’s around Richie’s waist, bodies curved into one another. It brings a lump to his throat for no particular reason. He saves it to his phone from the chat, then turns his attention back to Richie to have a go at him for trying to pick up the beer glass with only his mouth.

When Richie disappears to the toilet a little while later, he gets his phone out again and memorises the lines and colors of the photo, staring at it for an inordinate amount of time. He sets it as his screensaver, replacing whatever automatically generated image he’d had before. He can’t even remember what it was. The lump in his throat releases in an instant.

It’s the best day he’s had in years.

*

Richie’s phone vibrates aggressively for the tenth time in the last half hour or so. He eyes it warily from across the table, watching as the screen lights up, listening to the discordant scraping of it moving across the chipped wood. He doesn’t look away until it stops, his entire torso sagging as he presses his head down against the desk with a less than careful thud.

“Ouch.”

He needs to pick up the phone. He needs to return the calls at the very least, even if he doesn’t answer one of them when it’s actually ringing.

It’s been about a week since he’d told Steve that they were going to have to have a serious conversation about the trajectory of his career going forward; about a week since he’d told him that he was gay, that he wanted to publically come out, and that, oh yeah, he could fire Joe for him whilst he was at it, too, because Richie was going to be writing his own stuff from here on out. 

It had gone down about as gracefully as a lead balloon.

Steve hadn’t shouted at him, which was something. But he had told Richie that they were going to have to meet in person to discuss all of this, in a voice that welcomed no arguments, and Richie -- Richie has been putting off setting up a face-to-face appointment since then. He’d managed to get off the phone with some mumbled lie about the frying pan being on fire (“ _Shit, Steve, I’m gonna have to call you back, we have a situation here, bye!_ ”) and has been avoiding Steve’s progressively more frequent phone calls with the air of someone who doesn’t recognise the trouble he’s in. 

There have been a few voicemails, too. He’d stopped listening after the first five. The message is pretty much the same in all of them anyway.

He’s been using Eddie being here as an excuse, one that he’s been secretly using to convince himself that it’s fine that he’s been putting this big, important thing off. It’s not the sort of excuse that will go over well with anyone else, considering Eddie’s been in LA for over a month now and is more than settled into life here -- honestly, it’s pretty fucking impressive. There have been minimal freak-outs on his part, and Richie’s ridiculously proud of him for coping with these life changes far better than he thinks _he_ would have coped with them. 

Admittedly, he hadn’t been expecting Eddie to take this as well as he is. A part of him still thinks that Eddie’s going to wake up one morning and decide he needs to go back to New York, to his job, to his life -- maybe even to his _wife_. Richie still doesn’t know where his head is on that one because Eddie doesn’t talk about it at all; Richie’s half grateful for that. He doesn’t know how he’ll be able to look Eddie in the eye and listen to him talk about her like he gets it; like he’s not battling with this ceaseless ache within him that wrenches powerfully whenever Eddie is near.

But it’s been fine. Eddie seems fine.

If anything, Richie is the one who is not fine.

Being in almost constant contact with someone that you have a pretty permanent boner for is not that fun. This news is surprising to nobody, least of all him. And it’s not even purely the _physical_ strains it’s having on him, but the emotional too. His heart has a boner for Eddie. It’s disgusting.

His mind seems to be a kaleidoscope of thoughts of Eddie; clicking through each image steadily when he has any time to himself. Eddie coming back from his run in the morning, sweat pooling into the dip of his collarbones and the crevice of his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing with the action of swallowing down the ridiculous amount of water he apparently needs to hydrate; Eddie at the dinner table, chasing the taste of whatever Richie has made him that night with his tongue flicking across the swell of his lips, fingers linked where his hands rest on the slight swell of his gut after he’s just eaten; Eddie in the evening when he’s battling against his own tiredness, eyelids heavy and drooping, features sleep-soft and lips relaxed open on a breath, still digging Richie out in a voice that’s honey slow.

Shit. 

Whatever. This isn’t even about that. 

He groans audibly, lifting his head from the table. As if on cue, his phone starts to vibrate again. He’s not going to answer it, even though he should. He figures he’ll scan through the irate messages later and shoot off a response via email, knowing that there’s only so much longer that he can actually avoid doing this for. 

It felt so -- easy, before. To admit to the losers with all this false bravado that not one of them had fallen for; to proclaim that he was going to finally get his shit together and let the world know who he is, because fuck pretending to be someone else for the rest of his thus far wasted life.

Yeah… it’s definitely not as easy as all of that. 

Even with the time and the distance between them, Richie had known that the losers would accept him. At least, he’d been about ninety per cent certain, and that had been enough for him back in Derry, back when he was still riding the high of _actually being alive, fuck me sideways_!

Everytime he thinks about doing it all over again but this time to people who might actually hate him for it, his body has this agonisingly intense reaction, like he’s about to puke his guts up, together with everything else inside him. 

He hasn’t. Yet. There’s still time.

The very idea that he’s about to put everything on the line and all of a sudden not be this person that everything thinks he is -- he’s decidedly not confident about this. Trashmouth has become something of a safety blanket for him, his own cloak of invisibility. People talk about Trashmouth; they don’t talk about Richie, even if they think that they do. But maybe it really is time to shed this layer of him at least partly. It never quite seemed to fit, anyway; not like a second skin, not the way it should have. It just became something he thought he needed, because the idea of being anything other than that was one that always struck intense, chilling fear into him.

It’s been so long that a part of him is worried that he actually has become that guy everyone thinks he is - the Trashmouth. Richie’s played up to that persona all his life, believing it to be the caricature that people wanted from him, and for a while, he’d convinced himself that that was just who he was. He’d created this character to protect himself in a hometown that would have destroyed him for being anything else, but… what if it was stuck now?

Returning to Derry had shot a hole right through that, obliterating his conviction that Trashmouth was who he had to be forever. 

He can blame the losers for that. Always seeing right through him, painfully aware of who he was and is. Even when he didn’t know it himself -- or rather wasn’t willing to know it himself.

Fuck it. He knows what he has to do.

He lunges across the table for his phone instead of getting out of his chair, steadfastly ignoring the twinge in his lower back when he does so. It looks like Steve has given up on calling for now, thankfully, and he gets rid of the notification ( _Steve Covall (24) Missed Calls_ ), choosing to look through the various text messages received instead. They’re all along the same lines: ‘call me’, ‘Richie we need to talk about this’, ‘I’m not kidding, I’ll drop you if you don’t answer the fucking phone’, and he sends back one text of his own. _Saturday, 3:00 pm_. 

Absurdly, he feels this ridiculous laughter building up inside him that isn’t at all appropriate. Nothing about this is funny, and yet he suddenly feels a bit delirious with it.

That’s how Eddie finds him not thirty seconds later; the dam in his chest broken, hunched over the table with his shoulders heaving and his eyes watering, unable to stop himself from laughing for even one second to get some air into his lungs. Distantly, he recognises that this is not the kind of reaction that he should be having right now, and that this is probably the panic talking more than anything, but it still feels good to laugh. As though this could all just be a joke, and not the biggest threat to his career so far, a threat that is entirely his own doing, a threat that could be avoided if he only continued on with his life like it is.

He can’t do that. Even if he wanted to, the losers wouldn’t allow it now.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eddie’s eyeing him warily from the doorway of his office, arms folded across his chest. “Are you laughing at your own jokes right now? Is that what’s happening here? Because that might make you the biggest loser out of all of us. I’m serious.”

That only serves to make Richie laugh harder. He slaps a hand down onto his thigh and, yeah, he’s such a dork, but it’s not like he can help it either.

“You’re so weird.” Eddie says. His head is tilted and his brows are furrowed, but Richie can see the quiver of his lips even from here, like he wants to laugh too but he can’t because he doesn’t know what the joke is.

It’s the same look he used to get when they were kids and he wasn’t sure if he was in on the joke. God, Richie was such an ass to him back then. If only Eddie knew why (he’s so glad Eddie doesn’t know why). 

“Sorry.” Richie chuckles around a breath, tugging his glasses off roughly so that he can rub the last few tears from his eyes. “I don’t -- I’m not laughing at my own jokes.”

“Good. That would have been embarrassing.”

“Hey, I’m funny! I can appreciate my own jokes.”

“If you say so.” Eddie steps into the office. He’s uncertain with it, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed in here, but that’s -- Richie has specifically told him he can go wherever the fuck he wants in the house. It’s his now too, after all. “What’s this about, then? Tell me.”

It feels incredibly stupid now. Richie knows that Eddie isn’t going to find this funny at all, because it’s so far from funny- it’s on the opposite end of the scale to funny. He looks up at him where he’s waiting for a response, arms still folded and his brows still quizzical, and he shakes his head.

“Nothing.”

“It obviously wasn’t ‘nothing’.” And this isn’t good because Eddie looks put out now. It’s the same expression Richie just recognised creeping onto his face; worn when Richie was too harsh to him, or when he felt as though he was being left out of something, and it’s deeper now than it was before. “What, you think I’m too, like, comically challenged to understand it or something? Fuck you, Richie.”

He turns to exit the room, already looking as though he’s going to make a scene of it, and Richie acts on reflex. He reaches out with his hand unthinkingly, closing his grip loosely around one of Eddie’s wrists and halting him in his steps. Eddie looks between Richie’s hand, where it’s touching him, and Richie’s face.

“What?” It’s softer this time, but tainted with reluctance.

Richie gulps. It takes him a second to realise his fingers are still pressed against Eddie’s skin and he drops his hand in a way that’s too quick; too obvious. He curses himself inwardly. “I have a meeting with my agent this Saturday.”

Eddie frowns. “ _That’s_ what you were laughing at?” 

He looks perplexed at that, pressing further into the room. Richie can’t really blame him.

“No. Not really. It was either that or cry, I guess.” He realises it’s too honest when Eddie’s face sort of collapses in on itself, and he shakes his head, “I’m joking! It’s fine! I’m fine. Nothing weird is happening here. Nothing weirder than the usual Trashmouth Tozier weird anyway.”

“Right, okay,” Eddie blinks at him. “So… this meeting?”

“Yep.” Richie pops the ‘p’ exaggeratedly. He’s trying for casual but it’s not coming across half as well as he would like it to. A sigh leaves him, one that he hopes isn’t too visible, and he busies himself with wiping the lenses of his glasses down with his t-shirt. To no avail. Everyone with glasses knows that this is a terrible idea and will just cause more smudging.

“Wait,” Eddie is narrowing his eyes like he knows something. “Is this the meeting? As in _the_ meeting?”

Richie winces. God, does he really have a name for it? Has everyone really been waiting for this to come around? He guesses he has some part to play in that. He did pretty much unload all of this on them back in Derry, telling them that he was going to finally release the truth or whatever, so maybe it’s fair that they’ve all been waiting for this. 

Wait… does this mean they’ve been talking about this? About him? He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

People talk about him everyday. Usually they’re only strangers, though. And whilst he knows -- he does -- that the losers wouldn’t be saying anything bad about him, it still makes his gut twist with something he can’t quite name. The whole situation is incredibly pressurised.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” He says finally.

Eddie blows out some air. “Shit… well. I mean, this is a good thing, isn’t it? This is good!”

Richie wants it to be good. He just isn’t sure that it actually will be. He nods quietly instead of trusting himself to speak, too worried that he’ll release more of the truth than he wants. He’s pretty sure he looks like one of those bobbleheads people (probably Bill) put on the dashboard of their car, wide-eyed, lips twisted into a half smile, half grimace, nodding jerkily for longer than is strictly necessary. He forcibly makes himself stop when Eddie looks at him with more concern in those big, doe eyes of his.

“Yeah! Yeah, right. Good. This is… what I’ve been waiting for.” And coincidentally what he’s also been putting off. Eddie doesn’t need to know that though.

“Good.” Eddie repeats. He gives him one last penetrating look before he’s heading back out of the door. “It’s laundry day. I need you to strip your bed.”

“Sure.” Richie mutters too late -- Eddie’s already halfway down the hall -- and he looks at his phone, where it’s now showing five new messages from Steve. 

He hopes that this is all going to be worth it.

Richie proceeds to think about anything and everything else in the three days before the meeting, hungering for a distraction whenever he can get it. It proves to be a blessing in disguise in some ways. He manages to focus on his writing better than he has been for ages, able to get through a rough draft of some of the ideas he has that he wants to put into motion when all of this is hopefully dealt with, because that’s what he’s been doing. Writing as though he’s already done the hard part. Everything he’s written now is genuine in a way that none of his other shows have ever been.

He doesn’t want to think about what might happen if this doesn’t all go the way he wants it to go, because he doesn’t think he can stomach another ten years or so of the painfully heterosexual Trashmouth experience. It’s not like he plans to drop the name or the better parts of his act, but fuck, he’d love to go on stage and not feel like a fraud for once in his life, cutting out the barely-concealed misogyny and homophobia that’s only good for a cheap laugh from the wrong kind of people these days anyway. 

He wants to believe he’s better than all that. Maybe he wasn’t, once, but he can be now.

In truth, he was never all that comfortable with it. He grew up telling those kinds of shitty jokes because he was a repressed teenager living in a painfully backward part of the country in the midst of the AIDS epidemic, terrified that someone was going to find out how contaminated he really was and leave him for dead in the center of a community that would never have accepted him for anything else.

So. Yeah. Maybe it’s not an excuse, but he figures he should get some leniency if he ever arrives at the pearly white gates.

He’s too old to keep doing this, playing the same old games that he should know the rules to by now but doesn’t. Feeling like everything in his life is orchestrated to get people laughing at him and not with him. A pawn on the chessboard of his own life. If he keeps this up, he thinks this will be what kills him before anything else does.

The sad part is, he used to think that it was all the same -- that whether they were laughing at him or with him, they were still laughing, and that was all that mattered, that was all that he’d wanted. But it’s not the same thing. One leaves him feeling proud; the other leaves him feeling pathetic.

Saturday morning brings with it a lull in the heatwave currently being experienced across southern California. There’s a humidity to the air that is almost as stifling as the heat, making everything feel uncomfortably damp. The atmosphere is dense with it. Richie almost wants the torrid scorch of the sun’s waves back, because it’s easier to deal with than whatever the fuck this is. It makes him feel tight-chested and stifled, but he knows that could also just be a physical reaction to the fact that this is it; this is the day that his life changes, and he can’t predict whether it’ll work out well for him or not.

It’s a day he’d usually want to spend in the back garden, caught in the shade thrown by the ostentatious palm trees that he takes unashamed pride in, taking a dip in the pool until his skin turns pruney and his tongue catches the taste of chlorinated water on his skin, listening to Eddie bitch about the temperature like he has nothing better to do with his time (Richie isn’t sure he does, in fairness).

Unfortunately, he’s busy resigning himself to his fate - whether that be good or bad - instead.

It takes him an excessive amount of time to drag himself out of bed and into the shower, eventually making his appearance downstairs at an even later time than is standard for him. 

Eddie’s made breakfast today -- a real breakfast, not a single health grain or a nut in sight, but plenty of streaked bacon and sausages and eggs. Richie eats like he wants to fill the uneasy hole in his gut with food, not stopping until his stomach is straining and he physically cannot put another morsel past his lips. The silence that is usually loaded with easy banter between the two of them feels obvious, and he knows that Eddie keeps shooting glances at him over the rim of his glass; these furtive little things that he thinks Richie doesn’t notice, but he does. He’s highly tuned into pretty much everything that Eddie does by now, all the shifts and changes in his behaviour. He wishes he wasn’t. The jittery glances are doing nothing to stem the dread pulsating through his body.

Eddie finds him standing in front of his mirrored wardrobe later, hands pulling the hoodie in his grip so fraught that it’s tugging at the seams. He takes one look at him -- at the unnatural poker straight of his spinal column, at the mauve contusions blooming under his lip, a direct result of overactive teeth -- and sets his chin in that stalwart way of his, that Richie recognises as his _determined_ look. The one that dares anyone to try and go up against him.

It’s a look he himself has fallen for on many occasions in the past. Each time, he suited up for battle and lost, but he didn’t care because sparring with Eddie was always one of his favorite hobbies, even when he was the one who wound up relenting and giving in the end.

Eddie looks at him, and he says, “I’m coming with you,” with all the unflinching valour of a captain going down with his ship.

Richie wonders if he’s the ship in this scenario. He then thinks that he might be projecting. Just a little. Eddie hasn’t once suggested that he thinks this is the wrong thing for him to do. There’s no reason for him to equate his career to a sinking ship. That’s all on Richie.

He doesn’t argue. For one, he knows better than to do so when Eddie’s got that particular look in his eye. For another, he doesn’t really want to. He doesn’t want to do this alone. But he’s not the kind who can request help from another; always ends up tripping over his words clumsily and offending someone in the process, even when that’s not his intention at all, making a hammy joke out of something that shouldn’t be joked about. The defence of humor that he’s hidden behind for so many years of his life is never going to leave him, but he knows now when to wield it and when to lay his shield aside. He’s grateful for the fact that Eddie has come to him with this, making the decision for him so that Richie doesn’t have to work out how to ask for it.

In any event, Eddie leaves without waiting for a response. He turns down the corridor, presumably towards his own room to get ready. 

Richie checks the time. They’ll have to leave within the hour. He’s not someone who typically cares to be punctual for anything, but he has a feeling that he should make an effort not to actively piss Steve off today. He’s already going to be testy as it is, and Richie might be an idiot, but he has at least a basic understanding of survival skills.

When Eddie finally emerges, Richie is sat on the bottom stair, knee bouncing up and down in an erratic rhythm. It’s roughly moving to the tune of ‘Another One Bites the Dust’, but Eddie doesn’t pick up on that, obviously, because the tune is only playing out in Richie’s head. He looks up as Eddie squeezes past him, dressed for business; he’s wearing a crisp white shirt pinstriped with periwinkle and business slacks, slate grey and clinging to his sturdy thighs. Richie barely smothers a frustrated bleat, because this is absolutely not the time for it. At all. Instead, he lifts an eyebrow, aiming for amusement.

“You look smart.”

“It’s a business meeting, is it not?”

“Yeah, but…” Richie looks down at his own faded jeans and scuffed trainers. He pulls a face. “Never mind. We should go.”

Eddie offers to drive them, but he looks so anxious at the prospect that Richie says no, even if he isn’t so sure he should be driving right now either. It’s fine. He’s a little less careful on the journey there, speeding up at the wrong moments and nearly missing one of the stop lights, his mind going a million miles a minute and not for one second resting on the task of driving. To Eddie’s credit, he doesn’t say anything. His face looks pinched when Richie does sneak a glance over at him, and his lips are pressed together, the colour blanching, but he still doesn’t say anything. 

He almost wishes he would, just so that he could say something immature and annoying back, instigating some sort of snippish argument that would help alleviate some of the pressure in the car. It’s so fucking heavy. His chest feels tight. He wonders if this is how Eddie feels when he’s about to have a panic attack, and then immediately buries that thought under layers of _nope_ because he’s not doing that; he’s not about to have a _panic attack_ for fucks sake.

“Are you ready to see a grown man cry?” He asks as they arrive at the offices. He aims for flippant but his voice breaks in the middle of it. Stupid.

“I’ve seen you cry before.”

“I was talking about Steve.”

Eddie smiles smally at him, which is somehow worse than anything else he could do.

He’s right, though. He has seen Richie cry before. At the hospital when he’d half dragged Eddie in through the doors, demanding that he be seen to immediately because he’d lost so much blood -- he hadn’t known that a person could lose that much blood, especially from something so seemingly simple as an arm injury. It had been worse than that, really. Half of the meat of Eddie’s bicep had been all but hanging on by the last remaining threads of muscle, and he’d had to be rushed away to theatre to get all drugged up and stitched up and Richie had cried so hard he’d thought he’d never stop. 

He’s not ashamed of it. Maybe he should be. Eddie didn’t die. Eddie was never going to die. He hadn’t known that, had he?

Whatever. That was worth crying over, even if the reminder is humiliating; even if Eddie is probably as baffled as ever at the fact that Richie had wept so much for him, like a wife who’d just been told her husband was not going to be returning from the war.

In fairness, that isn’t far off the truth. It’s pretty much exactly how he’d felt, actually.

“It’s going to be fine.” Eddie says just before they traipse into the office. (Rather, Richie traipses; Eddie saunters in with his head held high like he owns the place, and Richie’s heart squeezes at the fact that he’s doing this for him).

Richie wants to ask him how he can possibly know that, but he recognises that that would be counterproductive and argumentative, so he doesn’t.

Regardless, it’s not fine.

It’s not terrible. But it’s definitely not fine.

He kind of wants to turn back and flee as soon as he enters the building, but he doesn’t. If he didn’t run from fucking Pennywise, he won’t run from this. 

Even though they’re on time, Steve makes them wait out in the foyer on the too-soft waiting room chairs because he’s a dick, and probably because Richie’s at least partly deserving of it. It’s not enough to make him regret putting this off for so long or ignoring all of those phone calls and voicemails and text messages, but it does reek of payback for those little indiscretions. Fuck it. He probably still won’t learn from his mistakes, but Steve has been putting up with him for long enough now that he’s not that worried about it; Steve knows who he is and how he operates. He figures this paired with their history has to count for something.

Eventually they’re called into Steve’s office. Richie feels like he’s a teenager again, about to be scolded for enacting another stupid idea, and it’s ridiculous, he knows, because he’s an adult and this is his choice, but. He’s never been great at making healthy decisions for himself.

“Richie.” Steve says. His eyes flick over to Eddie. Eddie stares back. 

Richie looks between them a few times in the awkward silence, before taking pity on them. “Steve, Eddie. Eddie, this is my agent, Steve.” 

They shake hands. It looks like Eddie might actually be trying to break Steve’s for a moment, the tendons in both their arms straining visibly even beneath the sleeves of their shirts.

“Okaaaaay.” Richie says finally, prolonging the syllables. “And I’m Richie. I think that’s it for the introductions.”

They shoot him twin unimpressed glares. It’s sufficiently creepy enough that he takes his seat across from Steve without saying anything further. Eddie slides fluidly into the chair beside him. He looks very sophisticated like this. Men dressed in business casual wear is apparently a thing for him now. 

Or it’s only Eddie. 

He looks at Steve, with the cuffs of his starchy white shirt pulled back to display his pale, golden haired forearms, and resists the urge to shudder.

Yep. Definitely just Eddie.

“Glad you could make it today, Richie.”

And fuck if that isn’t loaded. He feels Eddie stiffen beside him. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Richie smiles pleasantly. 

When he sneaks a glance at Eddie, he looks as though he would quite like to take the fancy looking fountain pen that’s rolled over to his side of the table and stab Steve between the eyes with it.

“We need to talk about what you said to me on the phone.” Steve’s eyes flicker to Eddie again.

“Eddie knows everything, so you can talk about it in front of him.” Not everything, per se, but enough. Richie shrugs. “You can say it, man. I’m gay.” He’s proud of himself for the fact that his voice doesn’t waver. It hasn’t really gotten easier since the first time he’d said it, but it does feel better every time he does it. Like another ache in his bones releases every time.

Steve purses his lips. He’s balancing a pen between two of his fingers, tapping the nib rhythmically against a hefty pad of paper on the desk. “You know I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Do I?” His heart is thundering in his chest. He doesn’t let it stop him. “You haven’t exactly said it in so many words, Steve.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie’s hand flex where it’s rested on his knee, fingers digging minutely into the fabric of his pants.

At least Steve has the decency to drop his gaze, as though Richie’s words have shamed him somewhat. He doubts they actually have, but it’s the thought that counts. 

“Well I’m saying it now. I don’t give a shit what -- or who -- you do in your spare time. That’s not the problem I have here.”

“But you do have a problem.” It’s a statement, not a question. It’s not like Richie didn’t see this coming. Steve will probably have plenty to say about the risks of this, the damage it could do to his career and his reputation, as though he hasn’t been flayed by the media for some of his most insulting skits anyway. Worthy criticism, he’ll admit.

“You’re going to lose half your fanbase, Richie.”

Richie shrugs. “Yeah, probably. But maybe they’re not the kind of people I really want supporting me anyway, after all this comes out.” After _he_ comes out.

Steve’s nostrils flare, barely noticeable. “Maybe not, but these are the people who pay to see you, who have given you this entire platform -- you’re ready to risk all of that?”

“I’ll get new fans.” He can feel himself sweating now. A droplet travels down the curve of his back unpleasantly. “I’ll be like a gay icon, they’ll eat it up.” 

He’s being facetious, he knows. Mostly because he doesn’t fucking know how he’s supposed to sell this to Steve. Isn’t it enough that this is just what he wants now? It’s frankly insulting that Steve thinks he hasn’t thought about this, or something -- like the fear of what he wants to do and how it could literally tear everything apart for him hasn’t kept him awake for endless nights. Of course he’s fucking worried about destroying his whole career, winding up with nothing. His coming out isn’t going to magically wipe clean his history, built up of dirty, often offensive jokes, frequently at the expense of people who aren’t him. Like, sure, he’s made his career on a lot of self-deprecating humor too, but it was never going to be enough. 

Maybe he won’t even be welcome in the LGBT community or whatever it is now. LGBT+? Jesus, he doesn’t know any of this.

He’s running out of steam already.

“I’m just saying. You should think this over. Give it a few more weeks at least. I’ve got some bookings in the works for you around the state, we can get you on the road in a few months… maybe you just need to get back on the old horse.”

Richie automatically feels exhausted. He’d expected this, but he hadn’t prepared himself for how draining he would find it. Like coming out as gay isn’t hard enough as it is, he’s gotta fight with his agent for the right to even do that, or something. It’s bullshit. This is his career, it should be simple enough for him to take the reigns once in a while and make a decision that nobody is allowed to question.

Eddie’s the one who interjects. “He’s done his thinking. This is his choice.” He turns to look at Richie as though on an afterthought, rotating his torso so that he can actually look Richie in the eye. “This is what you want, right, Rich?” Like he wants to be sure, but also wants to hear Richie say it.

Richie looks at him. He looks serenely calm on the outside, but Richie knows him better than that. Eddie’s been as stiff as a board since they’d stepped into the office, and there’s a very different kind of energy rippling dangerously under his exterior. It’s not aimed at Richie, for which he can be grateful, because he already knows this isn’t Eddie’s usual state of irritation. This is something far deeper and angrier than that. 

It’s also something he’s witnessed on countless occasions and actively enjoys.

He has to force himself to think back to the question being posed to him. Is this what he wants?

He feels brave with Eddie there, looking at him with something fiercely encouraging in his gaze.

“Yeah.” He nods, not moving his gaze away. “Yeah. This is what I want.” He’s tired of feeling like a spectator in his own life, stuck up in the stands instead of playing ball down below.

“You heard him.” Eddie’s still staring solely at Richie and not at Steve. His lips pull up almost imperceptibly. “So do your damn job and make it happen.” He does turn to Steve then, and Richie almost balks at the hard steel in his eyes, despite not being on the receiving end of it.

Steve looks back incredulously. “Sorry, but who are you, again?” 

Oh shit.

Richie could have told him that was a bad idea. If only he’d had any inkling whatsoever that Steve was going to say something so moronic as this. It’s like he’s invited the rabid wolf into his space with just one innocently posed question. He almost feels bad for the guy. Almost.

Time seems to move in slow motion. Richie bites down on his own lip to stifle the nervous laughter that wants to escape as he looks between Steve and Eddie with something akin to anticipation in his wide eyes. That energy that was nestled within Eddie is now rising to the surface so beautifully, Richie’s surprised that there aren’t visible sparks emitting from his body. His eyes flash at the question, teeth bared in something that isn’t quite a smile. He lifts his finger to jab it vigorously in Steve’s direction, body folding up out of the chair and halfway across the desk.

Richie loves Eddie like this. He looks absolutely feral. When they were kids it was Richie who was on the other end of it most of the time -- and he didn’t even mind it then. He welcomed it, actually, always finding some excuse to play up just to get Eddie to keep looking at him like that, to keep sparring with him because having his attention always made Richie feel so damn special. Seeing it from this angle, though, when it’s directed entirely at someone else on _his_ behalf -- if he wasn’t already head over fucking heels for the guy, he would be by now. He’s lucky that Eddie isn’t looking at him right this instant because he’s positive the unadulterated adoration in his eyes would give him away.

He doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath until it comes out on an excitable hiccup when Eddie starts speaking.

“I’m his best fucking friend, asshole.” Eddie slams his hand down onto the desk. “Now either you sort this shit out, or you lawyer up, because you’d better fucking believe we’ll sue you for discrimination if you even think about dropping him for this.”

Richie can’t even speak. He has heart eyes. He’s so glad nobody else is around to witness this -- except he’d also _love_ for the losers to be witnessing this, holy shit, are you kidding him? A video of this would feed the group chat for days! They could make memes out of the expressions Eddie’s making right now -- well, Richie and Bev and Stan could make memes, because the rest of them are fairly technologically challenged when it comes to things like this. (Bill asked him what ‘wig’ meant the other day, and Richie had almost fallen out of his chair).

“Woah, woah --” Steve puts his hands up, chuckling nervously. “I didn’t say anything about dropping him! I’m not dropping him. Richie, I wouldn’t drop you, you know this, right?”

Richie nods dazedly. Then he remembers that Steve had actually threatened that in one of his snippy text messages, but he’s fairly certain that he wasn’t serious and, anyway, Richie isn’t going to say that right now. He doesn’t want to give Eddie any further ammunition; he’s sure Eddie will wind up in jail as a direct result of his own actions if he so much as alludes to that text message right now.

“Okay -- give me a week, we’ll get a plan together. You wanted me to get rid of Joe, right? Consider it done. Can you send me some drafts of what you’ve been working on? This isn’t going to be easy, Richie, but if this is what you want -- it’s done. We’ll make it work.”

Richie’s barely even listening now, letting Steve’s still faintly unnerved voice fade into the background. He can feel Eddie ease himself back into his chair triumphantly, expression showing so clearly how pleased he is with himself. There’s a pleasant ringing in Richie’s head, mostly brought on by the fact that this is happening and he can’t quite bring himself to believe it. After weeks of deliberation, he’s finally done it. Or rather, Eddie’s done it for him -- it doesn’t make it feel like any less of a win. 

He lets the rest of the meeting go on with minimal contributions from himself, feeling Eddie’s watchful gaze on him. They wind up putting another appointment in the diary for a few weeks time when they can actually get together and plot the next steps out -- this is definitely not the right time to do that, and he’s grateful that nobody is asking him to. He’s just relieved that this first stage is done, but his head isn’t exactly in the game right now. Even the mention of _how_ and _when_ he’s going to publicly release this bombshell makes his head spin agonisingly. They’ll have to work out the kinks (ha), but not today.

It’s not until they’re back outside -- he and Eddie -- after he’s let himself be all but led from the building that he speaks again.

“Holy shit.” He breathes out. 

Eddie is quick to react. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, Rich, I didn’t -- I shouldn’t have lost it like that, I had no right to take over your meeting. He was just -- fuckin’ railroading you in there, you know? I couldn’t --”

“Hey, hey! What the hell?” Richie turns to him, eyes blown with astonishment. “That was fucking brilliant! Did you see his face? I thought he was going to piss himself, jesus --”

Eddie cracks a smile at that, but it quickly turns into a grimace. “Shit. That was your moment. I shouldn’t have come.”

“I don’t know if you noticed,” Richie snorts. “But I was about as pointless as your mom’s sex life back there.”

“For fucks sake, Richie --”

“Okay, sorry, sorry -- but, seriously.” He claps a hand down onto Eddie’s shoulder companionably, searching for his eyes. “I couldn’t have done that without you, so. Thanks, Eds.”

Cheeks tinted with pink at the nickname, Eddie rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling all the same. “Yeah, you could have. You need to have more faith in yourself.” He continues indifferently, “You’re still a disaster, but you’re not totally hopeless, I guess...”

“Fuck you too, shortstack.” Richie grins cheerfully. He feels like he wants to shout -- not in a bad way, purely to expel some of this nervous, thrilling energy, and the parking lot is expansive and deserted save for the two of them. Eddie might freak out even more if he starts yelling, though.

He removes his hand only so that he can slide his arm around Eddie’s shoulder instead, tucking him deftly into his side as they walk back towards the car; because he needs an excuse to touch him that isn’t just pulling him into a hug that will make him want to jump out of his skin. It’s nice for all of twenty seconds, before he’s digging his knuckles not so gently into the top of Eddie’s skull, and Eddie’s shoving at his chest to get away.

What has just happened doesn’t feel monumentous, is the thing, but it doesn’t have to. He knows it is. This is a real turning point for him. Perhaps he has something to thank the clown for after all, because none of this would have happened if he hadn’t been called back to Derry to face off with the grinning, toothy bastard.

Driving back home beneath the sinking Los Angeles sun, the horizon waning in the distance and Eddie Kaspbrak in the passenger seat messing with the radio, settling on some bouncy pop station that’s blasting out every possible corny disco song from the 80s, Richie doesn’t think it can get much better than this. He feels like he finally has something good after searching for it blindly his whole life.

*

Two months into the move and Eddie is beginning to feel guilty. 

Not about leaving New York. That’s still cemented in his mind as the best decision he’s ever made for himself, and he doesn’t think anything is going to change that. It still strikes him as strange on occasion that he’s not once thought of New York with any real longing since he’s arrived in LA. He’d thought that he would find himself missing at least something about it -- the city where he’d spent the better part of his life, building an entire existence for himself on choices he had made in and around that place, somewhere that realistically should hold so many good memories. But there had been nothing left there for him when he had taken the decision to leave, and that hasn’t changed.

Myra hasn’t tried to contact him, though he supposes this is solely because she can’t. He’d blocked her number when he’d left her, more for his own peace of mind than anything else, and now with the divorce… she hasn’t been actively fighting it like he’d worried she would. Perhaps the realisation that this is happening and that Eddie isn’t going to be returning to her has finally sunk in, a few months down the line. It’s a relief that he doesn’t find himself having to fly back and forth between NYC and LA merely to hammer the final nail into the coffin of his tragically failed love life. 

There’s still a lot to sort through but considering he’s giving Myra the house (obviously, it’s not like he has any use for it now, and he would have given it to her even if he had) and more money than she’d ever get through the courts, she has little reason to be difficult about the whole thing. It isn’t pleasant for either of them, but at least this way they don’t have to face one another in some inhospitable, sterile boardroom with bored-looking strangers listening to them argue their way through a settlement unsympathetically. It’s all being dealt with remotely; he has weekly calls with his lawyer, little updates on the progress of it all, and it’s still shocking to him that divorces can take so much time -- but he has to remind himself that however long this takes, it’s better than the alternative.

He doesn’t feel guilty about any of that. Sometimes, he wonders if he should. He recognises that none of this is ideal, especially in regards to the timing of it all. After so many years of marriage, he’d taken one phone call, dipped for an entire weekend, and then returned home without any answers for his wife but with an abundance of brand spanking new notions about what he wanted from his life. 

But then, were they ever really that new? Eddie couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t considered the option of divorce before, back when he had been too scared to really give it the time of day.

But he’d dropped a bombshell on Myra. He understands that. He takes some responsibility for the way in which he’s handled things, but he refuses to regret the things he has done for himself in this time.

In two months, LA has become more of a sanctuary for him than New York ever was. He actually kind of loves the place; feels himself falling deeper every day. Amongst the inescapable tackiness and the cringeworthy notion that this is the ‘city of dreams’ when in actuality only few people will ever achieve their goals, there are gems to be found. Like the Polish eatery only a few blocks away from Richie’s house, where Eddie has the best pierogi he’s had in years, something he hasn’t eaten since childhood and consequently finds himself longing for on a daily basis. There’s a week during which he survives mainly on pierogi and little else, with Richie constantly on standby as though he thinks this is finally going to be it, the breakdown they both know he’s been waiting for since Eddie landed in California.

It’s not. He just fucking loves pierogi.

They hike the gradient of Runyon Canyon one weekend, Eddie somehow managing to persuade Richie to come along with him for once, and they’re rewarded with some impressive panoramic views of the Hollywood Hills below. It’s demanding in the heat of the summer, his calves throbbing with the exertion of every step, and at one point he worries that Richie is actually going to pass out, there seems to be so much blood rushing to his face and his head. The journey is populated on the way up, but once there they find a quiet stretch of the hillside to themselves and spend a decent amount of time just basking in the serenity of it, before Eddie reminds Richie happily that they have to trek their way back down, too. 

There’s a moment when Richie nudges Eddie between the wings of his shoulders with the flat of his hand, like he’s going to push him down a particularly rocky part of the path; but before he can trip over his own two feet, Richie pulls him back with a strong grip on his t-shirt, sniggering away like he used to when they were teenagers with that one laugh of his that is so obnoxious it’s silent. Like he finds himself absolutely hysterical. He lets his touch linger -- whether purposely or not -- where the warmth of his large hand spreads across the center of Eddie’s back, and Eddie feels moored by it. Then he remembers that Richie literally just moments before tried to _kill_ him, and he says as much, sniping at him with his hands on his hips.

Eddie celebrates the achievement of the hike by taking a hot bath when they return to the house, appeasing the screaming of his muscles, and they order in Chinese takeout with a quiet admittance that it’s a first for both of them since Derry.

He can’t bring himself to feel bad that he’s rejoicing in this newfound freedom; from his marriage, his job, the steady lull that had been his life before this.

But.

The swift wave of guilt that he does feel is unreservedly to do with the fact that he’s literally doing nothing of use here right now. Richie keeps telling him that it’s fine -- it’s not like he’s paying for the house because he bought it outright (which, fuck yeah, Richie is definitely earning too much, Eddie has googled the house prices in this area together with the cost of living and it’s absolutely insane) and Eddie’s not a drain on his resources. He has a sizable amount of money stashed away in savings and bonds, and he’s paying his way; buying the groceries when he thinks Richie won’t notice, treating Richie to meals out every now and again, making sure he contributes towards the household bills and the steady amount of gas they’re burning through with their car rides. Even then, Richie’s always blithe about it, continuously telling Eddie that he doesn’t have to pay for half the shit he tries to pay for. But he wants to. It’s important to him that he does.

He can’t live off of his savings forever, especially if he’s going to be relying on them when he finds a place to rent eventually. Realistically, he’s going to have to get back to work before long. It’s only practical. Eddie can do practical; he’s the epitome of it, in fact. He wears a fanny pack at the ripe age of forty one just _because_ it’s practical, for Christ’s sake.

It’s almost comical. Just a few months ago, Eddie would have blanched at the thought of _not_ having a job -- the very idea would have made his skin crawl with the concept of being that idle, of not having the assurance of a work schedule to live by. That first week in LA he’d been convinced that he wouldn’t be able to cope without finding work immediately, overactive and itching for something to do with his time.

It turns out, packing your days to the brim with activities that are purely for leisure can be equally as fulfilling.

He hasn’t had this sort of time to himself in forever. When he was in college he’d gotten a shitty part-time job to see himself through it -- and to have an excuse to spend as much time away from the house and his mom as possible -- and he’s pretty much worked ever since then. Overtime at the holidays because it paid well and he and Myra never bothered to make any real efforts anyway; sometimes going so far as to sleep at the office because he didn’t see the point in going home purely to get back in extra early in the morning; filling his life with endless days of work to distract himself from how awfully pathetic it was beyond that. 

He didn’t -- Christ, he didn’t even really have any hobbies.

Now, he runs; he likes taking photographs and documenting the places that he visits with Richie; he actually watches television like a ‘normal person’, eyes opened to all sorts of apparent ‘classics’ that he’s never seen before -- Friends, The Office, Game of Thrones, just to name a few. He still leaves the cooking to Richie, because Richie’s like some sort of God in the kitchen (and no, Eddie will not be telling him this in so many words), but he helps where he can, preens whenever he suggests that Richie adds a specific herb or spice to a dish and Richie looks at him like he’s impressed, like he’s made the right call.

So. He’s actually doing a _lot_ with his time, but none of it is particularly useful. He would once have described all of these things as worthless, but he won’t do that. Beverly reminds him everytime they talk that if he’s happy, then it’s worthwhile. He’s starting to get it now.

The two of them are lazing around the pool because, as usual, it’s hot. So fucking hot. Eddie feels as though he’s melting into the cushion of the sun lounger beneath his reclining, sweaty body, and he can’t really bear to move right now. The good thing is that he doesn’t have to because it isn’t like he has anything else to do with his time, something that has been bothering him consistently for the last week or so. Even if he has to admit that it’s kind of nice; this nothingness, though it’s getting a little old now.

His skin is crisping up beneath the power of the rays blaring down upon the front of his body, coated in at least three layers of extra strong sun protection that is still probably doing very little. He’s not sure how much more tan he could possibly get; looking down at his freckled chest apprehensively as he thinks on this.

A splash of water from the pool hits his stomach and he doesn’t quite manage to suppress the moan he makes. It’s a brief, split second of relief for one tiny part of his body before it’s gone as quickly as it came. He glares at Richie in the water from behind his sunglasses; feeling irrationally jealous for a moment because Richie is in the pool and he isn’t. Then the mind fog lifts and he remembers that he can get into the water too, if he wants.

Which he does. 

It’s just a lot of effort to get up, that’s all.

He peels himself up from his position on the lounger lethargically, everything feeling heavy and slow, hissing as the soles of his feet make contact with the blistering ground. It takes him a skip and a jump to reach the side of the pool, and he flips Richie a lazy bird when he hears him laughing, the sound of it bubbling over like a waterfall. He sinks himself down into the welcome chill of the swimming pool. 

There’s no way he can suppress _this_ moan. There’s something inherently gratifying that comes with the sensation of cool water on sun heated skin, and it’s the relief he’s been craving for the past hour. He ducks his head beneath the surface for good measure, relishing in the goosebumps that prickle along his forearms and sternum. He thinks he could stay like this forever.

When he resurfaces Richie is watching him with a curious expression on his face. He looks a little sunburnt, his cheeks crimson with it, and Eddie winces in sympathy. That’s going to hurt.

“You should put more sunscreen on.” Even the relaxed environment can’t chase away that strong sense of responsibility he’s always had. When they were kids, he felt as though he had to look out for the rest of them with the lotions and the plasters and the antibacterial wipes constantly stashed in his fanny pack, because who else was going to do it? Now, he’s still as conscientious as ever.

Especially where disease is concerned. Sun can cause cancer. The thought makes him shiver despite the temperature.

“Yes, dad.” Richie says boredly, before he slices his palm across the surface of the water, splattering Eddie with it.

“Jackass.” Eddie fires back. He sends his own wave in Richie’s direction.

“I could have said ‘yes daddy’,” Richie points out. “And then we would be having a completely different conversation.”

Eddie splutters. He feels as though his head could explode. “Beep fucking beep, Richie!”

Richie looks like he has more to say, but he bites his tongue. Eddie is eternally grateful for this small blessing. He absolutely does not want Richie to continue that thread of consciousness.

“I think I should get a job.” He says, for lack of something better to say, and because it’s been on his mind for a while now anyway.

“Oh?” Richie looks at him consideringly. “You’re not enjoying the sugar baby life? Shit, wait, that would make _me_ the daddy --”

“Richie!” Eddie would be embarrassed at the higher pitch of his tone, except it’s justified in the circumstances. “Would you just shut up for one minute?”

“Right, right.” He mimes zipping his lips shut.

Eddie glowers at him something fierce.

Ignoring that, Richie looks right back at him with an expectant expression painted across his features, making an impatient _go on_ motion with his hand.

Eddie has never met a more irritating person in his life. But he’s also known this about Richie since forever, so he deals with it (with the aid of a lot of breathing exercises and so-called mindfulness, which he’s taken up since entering LA because yes, he’s a walking cliche now, what about it?).

“As I was saying,” He looks at Richie pointedly. “I think it’s about time I got a job. I can’t actually sit around doing nothing forever.” As tempting as that sounds.

“Okay.” Richie nods. “Is that going to be hard? Are there lots of jobs for --” He pauses. He looks a little sheepish.

“Risk analysts.” Eddie prompts. He has the patience of a saint, even if he does say so himself. He’s not sure everyone else would agree with that, but screw everyone else. “I’m a risk analyst.”

“Duh. I know. I was just going to say that.”

“No you weren’t.”

“I was! You didn’t let me finish!”

“You stopped for, like, thirty seconds --”

“It was a dramatic pause. For suspense.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Sure. Anyway -- I haven’t looked yet, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find something.” He considers it, tilting his head. “I’d imagine there’s as much a need for risk analysts here as there is in New York.” 

“Nice.” Richie splashes through the water a bit. “Don’t feel like you have to rush back to it, though. I have everything under control here.” He shrugs. “I know you’ve enjoyed having the time off.”

“I have,” Eddie replies honestly. “But I can’t just… enjoy myself forever. Plus, I need to find a place of my own eventually, and I’ll definitely need a job for that.” References, too. God, he hasn’t even thought this part of it through at all. 

There’s still so much about his life here that isn’t settled, so many decisions that he’s going to have to make, but he’s found progress to be slow; he doesn’t feel this need to make haste with any of it, not with Richie motivating him to take this time for himself too.

“Oh.” Richie blinks at him, before he recovers clumsily with an almost fitful nod. “No, yeah, that makes -- that makes total sense.” His shoulders are curved forward around his chest, and it draws Eddie’s eyes to the spattering of dark body hair across his torso. He swallows, tearing his gaze away.

Richie speaks again, “Have you started searching? For a place, I mean…”

“Oh.” It’s Eddie’s turn to blink. He can’t place Richie’s tone; can’t work out whether he’s digging because he _wants_ Eddie to have started looking, or -- whatever the alternative is. “No. I haven’t. I can, if you want --”

“No.” Richie shoots that down quickly enough. He twists his lips, lifting one shoulder into a half-shrug. He skims his hand across the water, eyes shadowing the movement instead of looking at Eddie. “I’m not kicking you out or anything, man, don’t worry.”

The muscles along Eddie’s shoulders and back seem to loosen involuntarily at the reassurance. For all of his worries that he’s intruding, he never once considered that maybe Richie likes having him here as much as he likes _being_ here. That maybe this move hasn’t solely been beneficial for him but it’s helped Richie somehow too. Even the thought that that might be the case has something warm blossoming in his chest all the way down to the meandering dip beneath his rib cage, and he feels incredibly _full_ with it. 

It’s comforting to think that maybe he’s not the only one who has found refuge in this returning closeness between them. 

“Good. I’ll probably be here for a while yet.” He feels more confident in the moment; studying Richie’s face to bear witness to any reaction to his words, however small.

There’s nothing. Nothing that he can see with his own eyes, anyway. He tries not to feel disappointed about it.

Richie says, “Cool. You can stay for however long you want, you know that.”

Eddie does know it, and he wants it, and he inexplicably wants Richie to want it too. 

More than that, he wants him to _voice_ it. To tell Eddie to stay, almost.

It’s a completely irrational desire, suddenly.

He watches as Richie swims to one side of the pool and pulls himself up and out, palms flat against the stone and muscles shifting all the way up his arms and across the vast expanse of his back. His gaze catches on the droplets of water caught in the thick, dark hair along his chest, the wiry curls leading down from his belly button. It remains there when Richie rubs a hand over the arc of his abdomen, soft and spilling slightly over the waistband of his swim shorts. 

“You coming? I’m gonna make some lunch.”

Eddie’s eyes shoot upwards at the sound of Richie’s voice cracking through the air. “Yeah.” His voice is husky. He clears his throat, shakes his head as though the move will be enough to clear the fog from his mind too. “Yeah, sure, just give me a minute.”

“Not too long, Spagheddie, I can’t be trusted not to eat it all myself.” Richie throws honest to God finger guns in Eddie’s direction before he moves back into the house, humming a jaunty tune under his breath.

Fuck.

He ducks his head back under the water, holding his breath for as long as he can before he’s resurfacing and gasping for air, appreciating the sharp drag of his lungs just the same as he does when he’s running. His head spins dizzily as he takes in mouthfuls of oxygen, his full body heaving with it.

Shit. 

When he finally manages to drag himself out of the pool, he fumbles for his phone hidden securely beneath his towel and Googles the symptoms of heatstroke. 

*

“This was a terrible idea. The worst idea I’ve ever had. Why didn’t you stop me? You’re supposed to be my friend.”

There’s a pause, and then -

“Hi, Richie. I’d ask how you are, but I guess there’s no need.” 

“Beverly.” Richie moans, eyes furtively glancing back towards the door of the bathroom that he’s unthinkingly locked himself in so that he can make this phone call with some semblance of privacy. He feels ridiculously like an undercover spy, creeping around in the confines of his own home. “I’m having a crisis.”

“Aren’t you always?” 

“That’s not the point.”

“Fine. But to answer your question… I couldn’t stop you. You made this decision before running it past me.” Beverly reminds him, continuing with, “And anyway, why do you think I would have stopped you? I guess I should be honoured you think I have more control than you do, but-”

“You do!” Richie hisses down the phone. Quietly. Eddie should still be out in the garden but he’s not taking any chances. “You have so much more control than me! You haven’t moved in with Ben yet! _Eddie has moved in with me before you’ve moved in with Ben,_ can we acknowledge how wrong this is?”

There’s a sigh from Bev. “It’s not _wrong_ , Richie, come on. Besides. It’s... different.” Distantly, Richie can hear the sound of running water across the line. “Ben and I are taking it slow. You two are just friends, right?”

And that. If that isn’t a leading question, Richie doesn’t know what is. “Yes.” He agrees sourly. “Thanks for that.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She’s practically admonishing him with her tone, even though there’s some underlying humour there. Well. Good. At least one of them is taking some pleasure from this. “You know what I mean.”

He does. 

It’s different for him and Eddie because there’s nothing romantic or complicated about this arrangement. Not so far as Eddie is aware, anyway. It’s actually extremely fucking complicated for Richie, but that’s unfair of him, because these are all problems of his own making. As far as Eddie knows, this is Richie doing him a favor as his best friend and nothing more than that -- and that _is_ what it is. It’s not as though Richie had some perverted ulterior motive when he offered his spare room to Eddie, but he also didn’t think this through -- didn’t consider how difficult this was going to be for him. It’s one thing yearning for someone who lives a thousand miles away; it’s another thing entirely yearning for someone who’s a few doors down the corridor at most.

He thinks of Bev, moving into a fancy new apartment in the same city as Ben, fresh off of the absolute train wreck of her marriage and subsequent divorce. Which hadn’t been pleasant at all, because her ex husband was the biggest jackass in the world, Pennywise excluded. Maybe. Definitely the biggest _human_ jackass in the world.

Anyway. The point is -- Bev and Ben found one another again, did the whole confessing thing, and now they’re doing this the right way. Richie feels a little like whatever the fuck he’s doing is ass backwards. But it isn’t like he has any plans to confess his feelings to Eddie ever, so. This is --

“Fine.” He mumbles on a breath, fiddling with the towel rack. Because he’s confined to the bathroom. And there’s little else to do in here whilst he’s on the phone. “How’s that going anyway?”

“Me and Ben? It’s good.” Bev’s voice takes on a dreamy quality that simultaneously makes Richie want to throw up and cry with happiness. It’s an incredibly jarring reaction. “Really good. I keep having to remind myself that it’s okay to want this… and that I’m doing the right thing by not just moving straight in with him, but- it’s great.”

Richie narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “Have you jumped his bones yet?”

The ensuing silence is only too telling. In fact, Richie would go so far as to say that it speaks volumes.

“You have! You’ve jumped his bones!” His voice rises with glee. Cautiously, he holds his breath, looking back towards the door like he thinks Eddie might appear on the other side.

He doesn’t. Probably because he is still in the garden, where Richie left him barely ten minutes ago, escaping away like a thief in the night just so that he could make this phone call and cry to Bev about the existential crisis he’s having in peace. He lets go of the breath.

Bev’s voice is remarkably mild when she replies. She’s definitely smiling though; he can hear it. “Can you blame me? Like I said… limited self control over here.”

Richie can relate. He nods sympathetically even though she can’t see him, before he says, “And? Is that ass as firm as it looks?”

She hums for a moment. “You could bounce a quarter off of it.”

Richie wolf whistles obnoxiously. “I’m coming for your man, Marsh.”

“No you aren’t,” She sounds cheerfully confident. He loathes it. “He’s not your type at all. Too tall. Not feisty enough.” 

His brow creases and he opens his mouth to retaliate, but she’s apparently not quite finished 

“Besides, I have it on good authority that your new room-mate has a delectable ass. You don’t need Ben’s.”

“Have you been checking out Edward’s ass, Bevvie?” Richie gasps exaggeratedly. “Is one good ass not enough for you?”

“Are you telling me you _haven’t_ been checking out Eddie’s ass? Because I gotta tell you,” Bev is definitely laughing at him now. “You’re missing out.”

“I didn’t say that.” It’s too quick a response and Richie closes his eyes for a moment, trying to regain control of the conversation. “Okay, I’m done talking about this.”

Bev laughs. It’s an incredibly joyous sound, even if it is at Richie’s expense. “I’m just _saying_. Maybe you should check out his ass.”

“I have. I do.” Richie groans. “Beverly, I am tormented by that ass every second of every day right now. Do you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying? I am in hell. I’m being tortured to death. I’m never going to get over this.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause. He didn’t intend for this. He was only -- trying to make a joke out of it, except the words are too close for comfort, and Bev must know this just as well as he does.

“No, probably not.” She sounds soft and sympathetic now, and it’s so much worse than the teasing and the laughing.

Richie lets his eyes shut, dropping his head back against the cold, tiled wall with a clunk. “I don’t know what to do.” His mouth works around the words dryly, honesty so much harder than the alternative. 

It feels like he’s admitting to something sordid. Like maybe this is his confessionals and it’s time he started repenting for his sins, but -- it’s not like that. It’s not. He’s had plenty of time to deal with his own internalised issues, to come to the realisation that there’s nothing wrong with who he is, nothing wrong with what he wants. Besides.

Love is one of the purest fucking things in the world. And he does love Eddie Kaspbrak.

He aches and he yearns and he burns with the force of it.

“Oh, sweetie…”

He keeps his eyes and mouth shut, worried about what will fall out of his traitorous lips if he opens them.

“I don’t know what to say.” Bev admits carefully. “Half of me wants to tell you to get yourself out of this situation, and the other half… the other half of me is saying you should tell him. I don’t know which is the right choice. Maybe neither of them.” She laughs, but it’s humorless this time around. It doesn’t spread warmth through Richie’s body like before.

“Shit. You’re probably right.”

“About which part?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The thing is, he can’t tell Eddie. He can’t. It’s bad enough that everybody else knows, bad enough that his wasted heart still belongs to Eddie after all these years and he doesn’t know it; isn’t even distantly aware of it. Like, _hey, dude, you have my entire fucking heart and soul but you don’t even know it, and it’s fine, it’s cool, we’re best friends, right?_

And yeah, maybe Richie’s forty one years old and too old to be acting like he’s in a teen movie, but having Eddie as his best friend? Way better than not having him at all. He’s already experienced twenty seven years of that, only now understands why no amount of anything could ever fill that bottomless pit inside him that was carved out as a direct result of the very real loss of his childhood friends. He’s not a romantic, okay? He’ll leave that for the Ben’s and the Mike’s of the world, but -- but fuck yeah, he does feel whole again since he’s got the losers back in his life, and he’d be lying if he said that Eddie wasn’t a very important part of that.

He rubs a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew and tilting his vision a little. He chuckles throatily. “I’ve gotta say… I did not see the conversation taking this turn when we were talking about Ben’s ass.”

“Too real?” Bev makes a sympathetic clicking sound with her tongue.

He doesn’t mind; Bev kind of gets him. There’s a difference between sympathy and pity, he thinks. The former doesn’t make him feel as pathetic. “Just a bit.”

“You can call me whenever, you know? Whether you need bad advice or not…”

“Thanks.” It gets a little caught in his throat, but he perseveres. “Now go and corrupt Ben or whatever it is you kids get up to in your spare time.”

He feels a little better when he finally comes off the call. If he stays in the bathroom for a half hour longer staring at his screen, so be it.

When he finally gathers himself enough to go back into the garden, he’s greeted with the sight of a half naked Eddie laid out on the sun lounger, looking damn right illegal. It’s nothing new. This is LA. Eddie had gotten over his aversion to stripping off pretty early on in the first week of his arrival, when he’d realised that there really was no other way to beat the heat, so. This is at least a once daily occurrence now. That doesn’t mean that Richie is at all accustomed to it; he feels as though his heart is going to jump out of his throat and suicide itself on the pavement every single time he’s faced with this exact image, actually, but -- it’s fine. He’s coping.

He pauses in the doorway like a creep, because he can’t help it.Eddie’s eyes are shielded by those ridiculous sunglasses he wears (“ _They’re Raybans, jackass, get some taste!_ ”) and Richie is almost certain that he’s actually fallen asleep by the side of the pool. He watches the slow, even rise and fall of his diaphragm for a moment, tracking the freckles that are cropping up all over his bronzed skin because a ridiculous part of him almost always wants to get a pen and join them together like Eddie’s chest is a fucking a dot to dot puzzle. Or his fingers. He could use his fingers. Just tracing them lightly across the surface of his skin, leaving invisible imprints of his fingertips branding Eddie in where nobody else can see it, but it won’t matter because at least the two of them will know it. 

The digits in question spasm where his hands are hung at his sides, like the very idea of getting to touch Eddie like that is exhilarating to them. He hates his body. It’s a traitor to him. 

He feels stuck there. Like he’s suspended in time with his eyes pinned to Eddie, hungry to take in everything about his appearance that he possibly can in this moment where he doesn’t have to sneak glances from the corner of his eye for fear that Eddie will catch him looking. Committing this to memory, even though he knows it’ll only make everything harder for him in the long run; it’s excruciating enough as it is -- craving for something that he can never have -- without torturing himself like this. But he’s a masochist for any punishment that Eddie Kaspbrak can bestow upon him, even unknowingly like this. 

God. He’s going to die. One of these days he’s actually going to self-combust, and it will be all Eddie’s fault -- and the worst part is that he won’t even _know_ it’s his fault.

Eventually, the rarely used sensible part of his brain wins, spurring him into action, forcing him to recognise that he really can’t stand here all day staring at his best friend like a creep. There needs to be solid boundaries here - for his own sake as much as anyone else’s. 

“Eddie.” He steps over the threshold of the patio door, voice low so as not to spook the dozing man. 

It’s a moot point. Eddie doesn’t rouse at all.

Richie tries again. “Eddie, wake up man.”

Nothing.

He sighs frustratedly. He can’t just leave him out here laid out beneath the sun like this, and he’d bet his bottom dollar that Eddie will somehow find a way to blame him if he winds up sunburnt and sore. 

Dude’s really out for the count though. It’s almost sweet, how peaceful he looks when he’s like this; dead to the world and not working so hard to jut that chiseled jaw of his. Not that Richie really thinks Eddie does that on purpose; uptight is pretty much his default setting, which makes sense when you consider his upbringing, tossing a healthy amount of oppression and Sonia Kaspbrak into the mix. LA has actually done wonders for him in this regard, truth be told, and Richie’s vaguely impressed that California can even mellow someone as strait-laced as Eddie. 

Though only people who know him on a superficial level could really call him that, Richie thinks. Eddie’s a lot more than all that. He feels mockingly sorry for all of the people who have never given Eddie the time of day; never gotten to know him the way he does. Some people can’t look past the surface to see what wonders are hiding underneath. It’s their loss.

Besides -- Eddie’s surface? Fucking magical. Richie could lose himself for hours thinking about every aspect of Eddie physically. He often does. It’s excruciating. He could melt with it, even when Eddie’s glowering at him. Especially when Eddie’s glowering at him.

He reaches out uneasily to press a hand to his bare shoulder, fingers curving over the junction where it meets his neck. The warmth stemming from his skin forces Richie to swallow, before he shakes his grip gently. “Eddie, Eds - hey.” He pushes Eddie’s sunglasses atop his head with his free hand. It messes his hair up in the process, tufts of it bunching up beneath the plastic endearingly.

“Wha-” Eddie opens his eyes blearily, voice syrupy and deep from the rude awakening. “Richie?” He can’t quite manage to keep his eyes open, blinking at him like it’ll chase the sleep away, and his hand lazily reaches up to cover Richie’s.

“Hey, bud.” Richie smiles mushily, his face creasing and eyes bright with it despite himself. “Rise and shine.”

Eddie responds with a frankly adorable whine, squinting at Richie as he curls his body in on himself. His hand still holds Richie’s firmly in place. He looks a little sun stupid. It makes Richie’s heart clench and release ten times over.

“Seriously, Eds, you have to get up. You can’t sleep here.” Richie’s acutely aware of the fact that they’re practically holding hands, that his own is still pressed against Eddie’s exposed skin. It’s not helping the situation. He doesn’t think Eddie even notices, which is ridiculously unfair considering it’s the only thing he can focus on right now. Like there’s a flashing red arrow pointing down to their almost clasped hands, demanding that it be paid attention. “You’ll get burnt and then I’ll have to run to the store to get the aloe in and listen to you bitch for a week, and I’ll keep poking all your red bits, and it won’t be fun for either of us.”

The look Eddie tosses him- still through half closed lids- is positively mullish.

Richie grins. “I’ll make a whole skit out of you and perform it on stage in front of hundreds. ‘ _Stubborn New Yorker Can’t Handle the Heat so He’d Better Get Out of the Kitchen_ ’. You’ll hate it.”

Eddie hums, but he at least looks a little more with it now. “No you won’t.” He mumbles placidly. 

“I won’t.” Richie agrees. “If you go into the house and sleep in your bed like the sensible person that I know you are. Not that I don’t love this devil may care attitude you’ve got going on, but maybe we should bring him back out for this one, hm?”

It seems to do the trick. Eddie grumbles and finally releases Richie’s hand, but only so that he can reach across and grab for the other one; using it to pull himself up and out of the lounger. Richie at least has the semblance of mind to plant his feet at the right time, hauling Eddie up effortlessly when he realises what he’s trying to do. He absolutely does not think about what a disaster that could have been if he wasn’t so quick thinking (ha), visions of himself toppling forward and on top of Eddie on the sunbed flashing through his mind like the opening credits to a horror movie. 

“Thanks.” Eddie smiles at him lethargically.

Then he pats Richie on the cheek once and slinks into the house, leaving Richie marvellously bewildered in his wake. 

*

“She did it. She signed. It’s all over, Eddie.”

The voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. 

Technically, it is -- a phone call all the way from New York City, on the other side of the country, miles away from where Eddie is right now. But that’s not it. It sounds like there’s waves crashing against his eardrums, the words ringing in his ears and circling his mind like irate, incessant birds, swooping and diving like they just want to get the message across but he’s not quite paying them enough attention for them to do so.

“It’s--” He finds his voice, barely, but he can’t bring himself to complete the sentence for a moment. The words lodge themselves in his throat, and he coughs to hide the fact. “It’s over?”

“Well, we need to process the documents and deal with the paperwork,” His lawyer is professional and indifferent for a moment, his tone shades of cool, before it softens on the next words he speaks, “But yes, it’s over. You’re a divorced man, Mr Kaspbrak. You’re free to celebrate however you want.”

The finality of it has always intimidated him, but this -- this is really _it._

“Right. Thanks. That’s -- thanks.” He manages.

He listens as his lawyer closes the conversation, telling him that he’ll be sending through any of the paperwork that Eddie needs to see and a final invoice. Then he’s congratulating him -- which seems… insensitive. Sure, this is what Eddie wants, this is the call he’s been waiting for for months now, but -- it still seems crude to hear it in this way, somehow. Should he be congratulated for leaving his wife of seventeen years? Probably not.

Shaking fingers slide his cell phone back into the pocket of his trousers when he’s done, and then he braces himself against the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink with his hands gripped tightly around the basin. Too tight; his fingers feel numb with it until he releases the grasp just slightly. He ducks his head for a moment, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror when he raises it -- he almost has to do a double take. 

He’s been doing that a lot lately, not really recognising himself when he sees himself like this. The difference that a few months in California can make is insane, apparently; but today he’s not focusing on the upturn of his lips or the relaxed dip in his back. He sees eyes that are blown and shellshocked, cheeks a little devoid of colour. The sudden revelation has left him slack-jawed and shaken, even by his own evaluation.

Why does he feel so taken aback by this news? He doesn’t know. It’s what he’s been waiting for, the closure that always seemed to him to be so far off in the future. In the beginning, back when the divorce proceedings had first started, he remembers how he’d sat with his phone clutched in his grip constantly, on tenterhooks for the calls from his lawyer, waiting for the one that would finally make this all seem legitimate to him. That hasn’t been the case for weeks now, almost like he’s been distracted by this new life he’s trying to build for himself, an entire world away from the old one.

The old one which he now knows for certain he will never be returning to.

Not that he had ever thought that he would, but… the marriage still looming over him had felt like a threat, somehow. Like a promise that he wasn’t done with New York and everything he had left there until -- well, until this, he supposes.

A noise of disbelief expels from his chest, ricocheting around the echo chamber of the bathroom, so loud that it makes him flinch even though he’s the one who made it.

Shit.

He hasn’t braced himself for how this would feel.

He’s let himself consider it before, obviously. All the different ways that it could pan out. 

Sometimes, when he’s imagined this, he’s been sad about it. The news leaves him feeling hollowed out and alone, and he imagines a life for himself that is built entirely on broken promises, because isn’t that what a failed marriage is? Other times, he’s imagined that it fills him with effervescent joy. He feels like he could touch the sky, swim the depths of the ocean, do everything he’s never been able to do before without the harness of marriage constricting his every movement. But that’s not exactly fair, because he knows he can’t blame his marriage on half of the shit he has or hasn’t done -- a lot of that is on him. 

Most of it, he blames it on his mother for loving him too much in her own restrictive way.

The more he thinks about it now, the more he realises that he doesn’t feel either of those things that he’s imagined he might feel. He’s not unhappy and he’s not overjoyed. There’s no end to the emotions fizzing within him, but none of them are more powerful than the rest. Except for one, maybe, but he’s not even sure that it can really be classed as an emotion.

He’s been feeling lighter even since he left New York, but this feels like the final piece of the burden being lifted from his shoulders; like Atlas, being released from his retribution. Until this year, he hadn’t even realised exactly how shackled he had been.

The problem is knowing what to do with all this freedom.

Sure, he’s been enjoying himself -- partaking in plenty of new activities; reluctantly, and with the constant encouragement of one Richie Tozier. But there should probably be more to it than that, he thinks.

Or maybe not.

Maybe he’s earned this -- this right to grant himself a few months of unpressured nothingness. Is it not just enough to live a simple, pleasurable life? He thinks they’ve _all_ earned it, after the years of bullshit the world has piled against them without them even knowing it. The childhood trauma only exacerbated by the appearance of some child-murdering alien; the twenty seven years of lost memories and lost loves, and _then_ having to relive all of that in a very short amount of time. He’d crashed his fucking car, for God’s sake.

He looks at himself in the mirror once more, pulling his shoulders back and nodding purposefully, even though he immediately feels like a dick for it. Then he marches from his room and straight into the office two doors down the corridor, knowing that’s where Richie is -- he wouldn’t intrude, usually, because Richie’s been in here more in the last few weeks than Eddie guesses he ever has, writing away with vigor. It’s like he’s found some new inspiration or something, but Eddie hasn’t questioned it; he figures it’s not really his business. He’ll hear the new material at the same time as everyone else, when Richie finally gets back to the stage as the ‘improved version of himself’ (Richie’s words, not his).

But he figures that this is important enough to forgive the intrusion.

He means to open softly with it.

Instead, he loudly proclaims, “I’m divorced.”

“Uh.” Richie’s head shoots up from where he’s been hunched over his laptop at the desk. He blinks at Eddie cautiously. “Shit, okay. Um. Congratulations?” 

They both wince at that. 

“Commiserations?”

It’s not much better. Eddie stares at him incredulously.

“Shit, I’m -- I’m not gonna lie, I don’t really know what you want from me here.” Richie confesses, running a hand haphazardly through his already tousled hair. It’s a mess. Eddie wants to reach across and brush his fingers through it; for the sole reason of putting it right, naturally.

He considers Richie’s words, and then says, “Neither of those, I think.”

“Fair.” Richie drums his fingers quietly along the table top, squinting up at him. “So.. are you, like… okay?”

He has to think about this one, too.

Is he? It’s a pretty monumental occurrence. Eddie doesn’t mean to brag or anything, but he’s actually had a shit ton of those lately, between the clown and the memories, and not to mention the whole ‘leaving his life behind’ thing, but -- this is still pretty high up there on the list. A mere year ago, Eddie would have considered divorce a sign of his failings as a man. He absolutely knows now that that’s bullshit; that it doesn’t make him any less of a man to fall out of love with his wife -- if he ever even loved her in the first place, which he has to admit… he doesn’t think he did. Myra was safe. It’s probably the last thing anyone wants to hear about themselves, and he would never do her the disservice of saying it aloud purely because of that, but it’s also the truth. 

When he met Myra, he was twenty four and fresh out of college, still with no real clue of how to navigate the world and adulthood, and she had been something of a beacon to him back then. Calling him home when he had most needed it. Now, he recognises that he was drawn to her because she was so similar to his mother, because she put his needs first (or at least his needs as both of them believed them to be) and had never once considered that he might not require being looked after in that way. She reminded him to take his pills without judgement; never once queried his neuroses, but accepted them without question -- which, yeah, that was definitely part of the problem, now that he thinks about it. She was so willing to accept that he was this fraught, poorly, needy semblance of a man, because that was who he had thought himself to be too.

He doesn’t want safe anymore. He doesn’t _need_ it, either. Lord knows he’s faced more than enough threat in his life to know that he can handle it by now.

Richie is still watching him carefully, but he’s moved closer to the edge of his seat. He looks as though he’s about to get up and prod at Eddie if Eddie doesn’t say something within the next thirty seconds, and he forces himself to come up with a response that will satisfy any concerns that Richie may have.

In the end, it’s the honest one, too.

“Yes.” He nods his head. “Yeah, I think I am, actually.”

Richie’s answering smile is so big that it looks like it could crack his face in half. Eddie can’t help but smile back; not half so bright, but just as genuine.

“Well, shit, we should celebrate!” Richie’s expression falters. “Or… not celebrate, exactly,” he continues doubtfully. “But --” His face goes through an astounding series of emotions in an incredibly short period of time. Eddie can’t even pinpoint the exact feelings he’s experiencing, but it’s evidently a lot.

He takes pity on him. “I know what you mean, dick.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re right, though. We could go for a drink?”

“Yes!” Richie throws his arms up in the air triumphantly in a double fist pump, lolling his head backwards as he does so. The chair creaks dangerously beneath the weight of the movement. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long. How come we haven’t done this yet? It’s a travesty. I have so many bars to show you--”

“Do _not_ take me to any dive bars.” Eddie glares at him. He uses every fibre of his being to force a warning into his eyes. “I’m not kidding, Richie. If you take me anywhere with a poor hygiene rating I will decimate you.”

Richie’s already typing away on his laptop. “Sure, sure.” He waves his hand vaguely.

Eddie does not want to know what it is he’s doing, but he knows that it’s definitely not whatever he was working on before he was interrupted. 

“I mean it.” His tone is pitched a little higher than usual already. “If I catch herpes from a toilet seat, I’ll kill you.”

That gets Richie’s attention, but for all the wrong reasons. 

He squints at Eddie for a moment. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“It is.”

“That's definitely not a thing.”

Eddie relents. “It’s _unlikely._ But it’s not impossible.”

“Okay, well, I can assure you hat I have not caught a single sexually transmitted disease in all my time frequenting these bars, and I have had plenty of questionable liquids touch my skin, so. Trust me.”

“Gross.” Eddie wrinkles his nose at Richie’s shiteating expression, but he sighs. “Fine. Whatever. Make sure you take me somewhere with expensive beer.”

“Already filtering with that in mind. Your expensive taste is my number one priority, my love.” Richie mutters. His attention has already been snatched back to the screen before him, and Eddie watches as his tongue pokes out between his lips, brow furrowing as he concentrates on whatever hellish night he’s planning on putting together for the both of them.

Eddie does trust him, though. He’ll decide whether he regrets that or not in the morning.

He leaves Richie to it, vowing to get on with his own day in the process, but he can’t help but let his mind linger on the plans ahead of them. It seems inconsequential, but the prospect of a night out getting drunk is more exciting than it should be for a man of his age. He reasons that it’s what he needs, though -- that it’ll help to cement the divorce for him even further, because he can’t remember the last time that he’s been out and gotten drunk; definitely not in the last few years, anyway. Myra never liked alcohol so he didn’t drink it either, and it wasn’t as though he had the ‘normal’ college experience. On the admittedly rare occasions that he did actually accept his colleagues invitations to join them for a drink after work, he’d sat cradling the same beer in the corner for an hour before heading home with some half-hearted excuse.

So. Maybe it is a celebration of something, even if he doesn’t want to see it as a celebration of him getting his divorce finalised, per se. It still feels heartless to him to view it as that. Myra has never been a bad person… she was just never the right person for him.

Admittedly it does feel good to finally acknowledge that.

He forces himself to focus on something else for a while, dutifully scouring the latest job advertisements on the internet, bookmarking the ones that he thinks he might apply for. He’s been pragmatic in his approach to this thus far, circling back around the ones that make the most sense for him and for his experience, but lately… there have been a few seemingly meaningless advertisements tossed in the mix. A few of the things he’s been looking into aren’t to do with risk analysing at all, and he feels jumpy whenever he clicks on them, tossing a glance over his shoulder as though he might find Richie standing behind him. Which is stupid. Richie wouldn’t even care, but -- Eddie’s still Eddie. It still feels equal parts moronic and frightening to consider the possibility of a career change this late in his life. 

But, whatever. He needs a job now. 

That restlessness is back, and there’s only so much cleaning that he can do, especially when he catches Richie eyeing him from across the room with that chastising look in his gaze, like he _knows_ Eddie has already mopped the floor twice today. That look always works on him, somehow; makes him feel a little guilty, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing, which is ridiculous.

Screw Richie for keeping track of his cleaning habits anyway. There’s nothing wrong with keeping a clean home. There might be something wrong with washing the same dish for five minutes straight, but Eddie purposely isn’t thinking about that, thank you.

In the end, he winds up sitting by the pool for an hour, because what the fuck else is there to do when you’re jobless and friendless in LA?

Which reminds him about the group chat that he’s probably been neglecting for a few days now; going through stages of replying to every single message like a mad man and then giving nothing but radio silence for days on end. It’s nothing personal.

Settling back into his chair, he thumbs through his phone, taking his time to read the messages and look at the photos (mostly of Georgina, again, but Eddie can’t lie; the dog is growing on him), snorting every now and again at some of the responses. Richie clearly hasn’t had the same problem as him, because he’s one of the most active ones in the group, shooting a reply off to mostly everything he reads, and it makes Eddie feel a little bad for a moment.

He considers telling them about the divorce, but he doesn’t feel up for it quite yet. That’s probably weird, right? They all know that he’s been going through the process, so it wouldn’t be a surprise to any of them… but Eddie thinks his hesitance might be more about the reactions. He’s not quite ready to have them congratulating? Supporting? Him, even though he doesn’t doubt that they’ll all manage to be significantly more sensitive than Richie. The thought makes him chuckle to himself, shaking his head when he thinks back on Richie’s reaction, which was incredibly confused, as though he couldn’t settle on the right emotion.

It’s pretty much exactly the same as Eddie feels about it, so.

It’s fine. He gets it. When Bev announced her divorce there was the same uncertainty surrounding their messages -- how is anyone supposed to react to that sort of news, really? Even when it’s something that’s welcomed and wanted, even when everyone knows that it’s the best choice for a person… it’s still something that’s difficult to navigate in any conversation, let alone over text where it’s nigh on impossible to read the tone of a message. Stan’s messages in the chat always come across as highly sardonic, for example… but Eddie thinks that just might be Stan, the more he thinks about it.

Yeah, he loves them, but he’s not ready to deal with that conversation yet.

He figures that telling their resident Trashmouth is enough for one day. 

He wonders idly if he can coerce Richie into telling everyone for him -- but this thought is quickly followed by the vision of how that would go, and he winces. No, definitely not. This is something he’ll have to do for himself.

With a shake of his head, he sends one thumbs up emoji in the chat -- to which Mike immediately responds with a smiley face -- and then he heads inside to shower the chlorine from his skin. It’s too early to really get ready, he knows, despite this urge he has within him to do exactly that, because their plans are now all he can focus on -- and if that isn’t sign enough that he needs a fucking job, he doesn’t know what is. He was not intended to live a lazy life (or a kept life, as Richie teasingly says, even though Eddie has his own money, Jesus-- ).

It’s 5:45 pm by the time he trudges down stairs, his hair still damp from the shower and fluffing out across his forehead because it’s long due a cut. Richie is cooking, as usual and, as usual, it brightens whatever mood Eddie is in considerably. He’s not unhappy today, per se, but it’s still a sight that makes him enter the room with more of a skip to his step than before. He can’t stifle his smile when he looks at Richie slicing through a multitude of vegetables on the kitchen island, the air already permeated with something that smells homely and achingly comforting to him.

“What are you making?” He asks as he hops up onto one of the stools, resting his face in his palm, hand popped up by his elbow on the surface of the counter.

He’s long since given up on feeling guilty about the fact that Richie does all the cooking, and his stomach thanks him for it every night. Nothing he could make will ever have a scratch on the meals that Richie concocts in this space.

“Your favourite.” Richie barely looks up from what he’s doing, but his tone makes Eddie a little suspicious.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s my favourite?”

“Spaghetti, duh.”

Eddie sighs flatly, but he can’t really complain because Richie does actually make a really good spaghetti bolognese. Also, he figures he sort of walked into that one; even after all these years, he finds himself stumbling willingly into every single trap that Richie sets for him. 

He means to spend his time on his phone searching for more jobs or keeping up with the losers -- anything that’s even remotely worthwhile -- but he finds himself watching Richie move around the kitchen instead. He’s so relaxed here, like he’s totally in his element; Eddie thinks he might actually be. Before this, he would have assumed that the stage was Richie’s safe place, but it makes sense now that the kitchen has become that for him. 

Despite having been living here for a fair amount of time now, he’s not grown tired of observing Richie cook -- or of eating the food he makes. He could never tire of that. Although he knows that some of it is at least partly to do with the fact that he hasn’t eaten food that’s so rich and flavorsome in his entire life, he doesn’t think that’s the sole reason that he’s so enamored with Richie’s cooking (because he is, truly). It’s obviously _good_ ; some of the best food he’s ever had, making him look forward to the dinners he gets to spend with Richie every single night, but there’s something beyond that, too. 

There’s something utterly domestic about this. Their skills complement one another. Richie cooks and Eddie cleans and Eddie likes that they can do these things for each other. 

It makes him feel both useful and -- wildly -- cared for. But not in the same ways his mother and Myra cared for him. This version is something he likes, something that he didn’t know he ever needed or wanted. He thinks Richie might like it, too. 

Richie’s placing a dish down in front of him, sliding cutlery across the island. “Bon appetit.” He says, butchering the French accent beyond repair.

“Thanks.” Eddie curls his fingers around the cutlery. He tries and fails to not look like he’s excited for this.

The first bite is always the most weighted, because Richie watches him carefully every time. He thinks that Eddie doesn’t notice, but he isn’t exactly subtle about it. It made Eddie feel self-conscious at first, made the tips of his ears burn, but now he knows that it’s nothing to do with him. Or it is, but not in the way that he had thought -- Richie isn’t watching him eat to make him feel uncomfortable, he’s watching because he wants to document Eddie’s reaction to the food, wants to know that he’s done a good job. Eddie doesn’t think he’s given him a bad reaction yet, and he’s not about to start now.

He doesn’t have to, either, because it’s wonderful. This is still nearly as surprising to him as it was that first night Richie cooked for him. He lets his eyes close, feeling the intense tomatoey flavor burst onto his tongue, the tastes he now knows to be garlic and basil following closely. It’s crazy. Eddie still doesn’t know how Richie manages to make everything taste so damn full all the time, but he does, without fail. It’s spaghetti bolognese and Eddie’s had about a hundred different versions of the same dish over the course of his lifetime, but this is the best one without a doubt.

“Rich, this is _so_ good.” He moans around a mouthful; no longer embarrassed by his audible reactions, because it happens so often now that it’s become a staple part of the evening.

Richie pinks, his expression shy but hopeful. “Yeah? You think so?” He looks like he wants to continue that train of thought like he has before -- _You don’t have to say that if you don’t mean it_ but he stops himself. 

This always catches Eddie off guard. Richie, for all his bravado and confidence (however much the losers always knew that to be at least partly faked), is so unsure in this setting. Considering it’s the one setting in which Eddie can categorically say he doesn’t need to be unsure, it’s mind-blowing to Eddie that Richie doesn’t see it.

“Of course.” Eddie says, swallowing down another bite. If this was about anything else, he wouldn’t be quite so patient with Richie, but he’s learned that he needs to be -- at least here, if not elsewhere. “Maybe spaghetti is my favourite after all.” He adds begrudgingly.

“I knew it!” Richie boasts. All traces of the earlier nervousness are gone, and Eddie would be mad about it, but it’s nicer to see Richie like this; sure of himself, even if it’s not always all that genuine. 

It’s ruined when Richie starts singing at him noisily. “Eddie Spagheddie… loves his spaghetti…”

He yowls when Eddie swings his leg under the table, catching him square in the shin. Eddie slinks off to get ready, leaving him to load the dishwasher even though technically this is a chore that he himself has taken on within the past few weeks. It’s a game they play and the rules are that Eddie makes Richie pick up the slack whenever Richie does anything even remotely irritating. Unsurprisingly, Richie is continuing to lose this one on a very frequent basis.

Getting ready proves to be a predicament in itself, because he hasn’t been to a bar in so long, and he doesn’t think that work shirts and pressed pants are quite the sort of thing that someone would wear to a bar that Richie attends. He takes his time deliberating over the -- admittedly few -- choices that he has, feeling like an idiot not for the first time today. He hates it. 

Eventually, he settles on dark pants with a relaxed fit, and a button down that’s more casual than he would wear to work. He figures that’s fine -- and anyway, it’s probably the best he’s going to get, considering his wardrobe isn’t exactly equipped to deal with unexpected nights on the town. Even that phrase makes him want to cringe and call this entire thing off, but he won’t. He won’t because this is something he should do for himself, something that should be fun, and sometimes it’s worthwhile to push his own boundaries.

It’s something he has to repeat to himself silently a few times, like a mantra.

As Mike keeps reminding them, they’re never too old to learn. Eddie still thinks that’s kind of unrealistic, but he doesn’t want to dismiss it entirely. If he’s learned anything over the past quarter of a year, it’s that there’s still room for growth even when you hit your forties. 

Growth was one of those words that heckled his anxiety, once. Along with words like ‘change’, and ‘new’ -- like when one doctor a few years ago had suggested quietly that maybe Eddie hadn’t needed to be on all the pills that he was on at the time, and Eddie had left the doctor’s office in a cold sweat and immediately registered with a physician Myra suggested the day after. He wonders if a part of him knew even then; saw some truth in the doctor’s words that had scared him so thoroughly that he’d reacted the way he had.

Change doesn’t have to be bad, and it can also be slow; though the thought makes his lip quirk, because nothing about the changes he has made recently has been _slow._

Moving to LA exactly three days after deciding it was what he wanted? Check. 

Quitting his job the same day he’d made that decision? Check.

As he tucks the hem of his shirt into his pants, smoothing his palms against his thighs, he thinks about how far he’s come and feels a rush of pride that brings with it some sudden confidence. 

It only deepens when he steps out of his bedroom and bumps straight into Richie. Richie, who takes one look at him and almost trips over his own two feet. Eddie’s pretty sure it’s purely the shock of seeing him in anything but the cargo shorts and polo shirts he’s been donning twenty four seven, but it’s nice all the same.

“Eddie.” Richie says slowly. “You look… nice.”

“Jeez, don’t sound so sure about it.” Eddie chops at his shoulder.

“No, you do! I… didn’t expect to see you without a fanny pack.” Richie’s back to normal in about five seconds flat; fast enough that it gives Eddie whiplash, and then he’s learning forward and gesturing to himself exaggeratedly, “Nothing on the ole Trashmouth here, obviously, but it’s impossible to beat perfection.”

Eddie levels him with an unimpressed glare.

Not that Richie doesn’t look nice -- he does. It seems like he’s brushed his hair, and he’s still wearing one of his loud, look-at-me shirts, but it’s buttoned up to the top two, a tuft of chest hair only barely peeking out from the gap. He’s -- _wide._ Eddie knows this; has always known it, but somehow in this shirt it’s even more glaringly obvious. Eddie’s embarrassingly endeared to the shirts at this stage. He figures it’s like some bastardised version of exposure therapy.

They walk in unison towards the stairs, the muscles along Richie’s arms undulating beneath the surface of his skin as he pushes his hands into his pockets forcefully. 

“You ready for the best night of your life?”

“Sure.” Eddie mutters distractedly. He only realises that he’s said something unexpected when he notices that Richie has halted in his steps. He turns to raise an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Uh, just -- you’re not going to rebut my claim? About this being the best night of your life?”

Oh. Yeah, Eddie had definitely not been paying attention to that.

He’s not sure he wants to let Richie know that, though. That could open up a can of worms, a lot of questions that he can’t answer because he’s not sure why he wasn’t listening in the first place, and Richie will only assume it’s about the divorce when, actually… that’s the farthest thing from his mind in this instance.

He keeps his face as blank as he can, shrugging. “I’m just going to give you the benefit of the doubt and let you try to prove it.”

Richie doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push the topic any further. At this stage, Eddie will take any small blessings he can get.

They get an Uber to the bar so that Richie doesn’t have to drive, and Eddie tries not to fidget nervously the entire ride there. It seems an irrational thing to be on edge about; going out for a drink with Richie. But his mind is full of these little, irrational fears, and just because they’re irrational doesn’t make them any less real to him. He hasn’t done anything like this in years. What if he can’t hold his drink? He’s fairly sure Richie won’t care if he has to hold Eddie’s hair back whilst he spends the night throwing up in the toilet, but _Eddie_ will care. Eddie will definitely fucking care, and not just because puking is disgusting and he tries to avoid it at all costs. He doesn’t really think he needs to give Richie any more fuel to use against him, so he prays that he’s not going to embarrass himself tonight.

The bar is...unremarkable from the outside. It looks like your typical run-of-the-mill hole in the wall, and not quite what Eddie is expecting of Richie and of LA in general, but he bites his tongue; knows to reserve his judgement. At least it doesn’t look _bad_. There aren’t any aggressively flashing neon lights proclaiming there to be strippers in side or anything, so he figures he’s getting off pretty lightly on the whole ‘Richie Tozier Experience’ -- because even if Richie isn’t going to be into it, Eddie doesn’t doubt that he would still think it hilariously funny to bring Eddie to someplace like that. Even the thought makes his skin crawl; if there’s anywhere he could get a sexually transmitted disease from purely by sitting on a toilet seat, it’s definitely a strip club.

But the bar looks fine, if inconspicuous.

That all changes when they enter.

It’s way busier than he expects just from standing outside, and it’s one of those buildings that gives the illusion of being tiny but makes up for a lack of width with the sheer length of the place. It goes so far back that he can’t see the end of the room when they first enter, and he squints beneath the dim lighting, surprise echoed on his reflection as he takes in the frankly alarming amount of people milling around. It seems exactly like the sort of place that Richie would frequent, and he doesn’t even mean that as an insult. It’s _cool_. He’d rather die than tell Richie this, because that would insinuate that he thinks Richie is cool, and god, he loves him, but Richie Tozier has never been cool a day in his life.

He still dresses like he’s a teenager. And it wasn’t even considered cool _then_ , so Eddie doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be now.

“See.” Richie proclaims smugly upon taking note of his expression. “It’s great! I told you it’d be great. They have napkins and everything, you love napkins.”

Eddie’s not sure it’s great, but it’s definitely not as bad as he was expecting. The floor is still dubiously sticky and he has to pry his shoes off the ground on every other step, but that’s pretty much a staple of every bar he’s been in ever (confessedly not many, but enough for him to be certain in this knowledge alone). He does appreciate a good napkin, too.

“This is your favourite bar?” He asks doubtfully.

Not because he can’t picture Richie here -- he absolutely can. Richie looks at home in this environment, an easy grin on his face, and Eddie’s pretty sure there are a few people here who know him; or at least recognise him. This kind of thing happens fairly often, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. It’s easy for him to forget that his best friend is actually this famous comedian when they’re in the house and he’s telling him to get his feet off the table and Richie actually listens. There have been plenty of occasions upon which he’s been approached by people -- fans, Eddie supposes -- when they’re out and about, asking him for photos and autographs. Most of them are nice. Some of them ask questions that clearly make Richie want to disappear into the ground, but Eddie’s gotten fairly adept at making those idiots shut their mouths and continue on their way with the frightening power of his death glare.

Richie gets embarrassed about the attention and the fans, Eddie’s noticed. But he doesn’t seem to be that way here. He watches as Richie waves happily at a group of people in the corner, before he’s turning back to Eddie with an explanation on the tip of his tongue.

“I used to do a lot of gigs here.” He says. “Back before I got my ‘big break’.” He says it like that, using his fingers to make the inverted commas around the words, and Eddie frowns a little.

He knows that Richie can be entirely too self-deprecating about his own career at times, and maybe the losers don’t always help with that. But regardless of how and why he got his big break, he did it, and it’s gotten him to where he is today, having the platform that he’s soon enough going to be able to use for something that he actually wants. He should be as proud of it, of himself, as they are as his friends. Eddie wants to say as much, but Richie continues speaking before he can.

It’s probably for the best. Richie doesn’t always cope well with his compliments anyway.

“I try to come back here every now and again, just to catch up with everyone. Can’t keep my fans waiting.” He’s saying glibly. Then he smiles something genuine, leaning in towards Eddie with and lowering his voice, “I’ve actually managed to convince Steve to book me a show here in a few months. First one in years! He doesn’t usually go for the small scale stuff, but… I’ve been meaning to do it for a while and --”

“Now’s as good a time as any.” Eddie finishes for him. He smiles when Richie’s eyes meet his with a surprise of a question resting in them, though his cheeks heat as he rushes to explain. “It’s what you said to me, the night I moved in. Felt like the right thing to say now, too.”

Richie looks at him for a long time after that. It’s probably only a matter of seconds, but to Eddie it feels like decades, settling something warm but fragile between them. Absurdly, it feels like it’s only the two of them in the bar for that time; until the moment is shattered by the loud, drunken roaring that comes from a table in the corner. When he looks over, he sees that it's a bridal party. He’s pleased to find that it doesn’t hurt to look at.

They order their drinks and make their way to one of the few booths remaining in the bar; pausing along the way so that Richie can acknowledge a few familiar faces here and there, but he doesn’t linger for long, clearly conscious that he’s with Eddie. It’s a jarring but not unpleasant reminder that Richie does actually have a life here that Eddie knows nothing little about. He knows, realistically, that he can’t expect to understand everything about Richie’s life, because they’ve barely been back in each other’s for a few months. But maybe a part of him had fooled himself into thinking that he _did_ know everything; he feels like he could recognise Richie’s breathing apart from anyone else’s at this stage, which is fucking _weird_ , but they’ve been living together for a while, now, practically inside one another’s pockets, so he thinks it’s probably okay.

Like, obviously Richie has a life here. Good for him. Eddie had been so worried that he was -- sad, when they’d first reconnected in Derry, because he had seemed it. Maybe they all had. It’s disconcerting to think that none of them were really living before this, but it’s a thought that has crossed Eddie’s mind far too many times for him to outwardly dismiss it. Things have gotten better since Derry in every which way, in ways that he would never have imagined, and he thinks they all feel that way now. He hopes they do, anyway.

But this Richie doesn’t seem sad. This Richie seems… not content, but close enough. Eddie doesn’t think he’s cared about anyone as much as he cares about the losers. He’s certainly never felt like this before, that he can remember -- like Richie being happy is enough to make _him_ happy, which is -- ridiculously codependent. Jesus. You live with a man you were meant to know your whole life but conveniently forgot for twenty seven years and this is what happens after barely a few months of that? 

He likes it. It’s _insane_ , but he likes it. He’d forgotten what it felt like to care about other people so much -- how could he have forgotten that? 

When he was a kid, he’d have done anything for these idiots, especially for Bill, who he’d idolised for so many years. But all of them had wormed their way into his young heart back then -- because he’d cared _so much._ Sure, he’d been a frantic, worrisome slip of a thing who annoyed them as much as he loved them, but… he can see now that in recent years, he’s still been that just without so much of that compassion for other people. His mom made him so anxious about himself and about how he’d survive in this world that he thinks that somehow became the only thing he ever really focused on; the main reason that he had allowed Myra to latch onto him like that, believing it to be for the best. He needed someone to do what his mother had done for him her entire life, and he’d only thought about himself for so long.

God.

He’s pathetic.

“Eds? Earth to Eds? You in there?” 

He raises his head where he’s been absently staring at one particular groove in the table. Richie’s watching him with that mindful, apprehensive expression that he gets on his face when he’s trying to decide how to play it; how carefully he needs to step.

“Yeah.” Eddie croaks, clearing his throat. “Yeah, no, I’m good. Sorry. Guess I’m not being much fun.”

“You’re plenty fun.” Richie corrects, which is about as reprimanding as he gets. “It’s a big day. I can’t blame you for being stuck in your head. Though it must be a terrifying place to be. Tell me, how many lists do you have going on up there right now?”

Eddie appreciates it, even with the jab. Probably more than Richie knows; even the idea that Richie thinks that he’s _fun_ is enough to have him choking up, bringing his beer to his lips to chase the feeling away. “But it’s not really the vibe we’re going for tonight, right?”

“Preferably not.” Richie smiles. “This is supposed to get you _out_ of your head. Like, _way_ out there.”

“It will. I’m glad to be here.”

“Yeah? Glad to be here specifically or --?”

“As in -- in LA. With you.” Eddie flushes with it, rolling his eyes more at himself than at Richie, but he perseveres. “I couldn’t have asked for a better friend to have right about now.”

For a second, it seems like it’s not quite the right thing to say. Richie’s eyes dim, head inclining almost dejectedly, but it’s so fleeting; passing almost as quickly as it arrived. Eddie can’t be sure that he didn’t imagine it, the low lighting of the bar casting shadows over the planes of each of their faces when they move in any particular way.

He hesitates on the moment, but suddenly there’s the high-pitched sound of a microphone being interfered with, and both of them turn towards the small stage area located near to the back of the bar.

“Is someone performing tonight?” He asks curiously.

He knows it’s a mistake as soon as Richie rounds on him, his expression absolutely elated. He’s beaming, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, lit up like a jack-o-lantern on Halloween. “Someone is!”

What the -- 

“Okay, we’re kicking off our Karaoke Night here at the Glee Club with, uh -- Eddie Kaspbrak singing Like a Virgin! Bold choice, my friend, bold choice…” Oh God, it’s a nightmare. Eddie’s living out an actual nightmare. The guy on the stage is reading from some sort of list and Eddie watches in horror as he continues. “Oh, there’s a note here, too… it says ‘Eddie’s single and ready to mingle, ladies!’ Hell yeah!”

“What the fuck, Richie!” Eddie hisses, pushing himself across the table, ducking his head as though these people will know who he is and come looking for him to drag him up there if they spot him. “What the fuck is this?!”

“It’s karaoke night, Eds!” Richie crows at him. Like he thinks this is fun. Probably because he does. This is precisely Richie’s idea of fun, whereas it is Eddie’s idea of hell. 

Sometimes, Eddie really does have to wonder how they haven’t killed one another yet, their differences so obvious and yet so essential to their relationship.

Richie is standing, already reaching for Eddie’s wrist with one hand, thick fingers splaying across his wrist. He pulls him to his feet beside him, even with Eddie at least partially putting his weight into resisting it.

“Don’t worry.” He says seriously. “I’m doing You Oughta Know next.”

Jesus Christ.

Eddie tries to convey ‘ _I'm going to kill you in your sleep_ ’ with his eyes. It doesn’t appear to have much of an effect on Richie, who all but hauls him up onto the stage anyway, despite Eddie’s clamouring and adamant refusals.

*

“What the fuck.”

Richie pauses in the doorway of the kitchen before thinking better of it and slumping against the wall. It provides him with some stability, which is good because it feels like the floor is moving beneath him. 

That can’t be right. 

He drags his eyes away from where they’ve been piercing Eddie’s back disbelievingly, focusing them instead on the floor. It takes a few moments before he can conclusively confirm to himself that it’s not, in fact, moving. It makes him feel a little bit better to know that.

“Yes?” Eddie blinks at him innocently. He’s sitting at the dinner table with a newspaper open in front of him and a glass of orange juice halfway to his lips. He looks --

Perfect. He looks _perfect_. It’s so unfair.

“How are you _alive?_ ” Richie whines. He immediately stops himself from making any further shrill noise when his temples squeeze painfully with it.

Eddie shrugs like it’s no big deal. He lazily turns a page in the newspaper. “I drank water when we got in last night.”

“ _I_ drank water when we got in last night!”

“No, you didn’t. You poured it down the sink when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“Oh.” Richie purses his lips, squinting as he considers this. He can’t remember doing that, but then he can’t remember much of anything from the night before right now, so he thinks it’s probably fair to assume that Eddie is telling the truth.

“Yeah.” Eddie shakes his head like he’s disappointed, but he’s trying not to smile at the same time, which sort of defeats the object. “You’re, like, even more stubborn when you’re drunk. It’s ridiculous.”

Richie has to snort at that. It’s more of a dry heave; he reaches out with one arm to get some leverage against the wall before he does something stupid like falls flat on his face. “You’re one to talk. I’m the one who had to drag you into the Uber.” He adopts a higher voice. “‘ _But Rich, I’ve gotta sing with my new friends_!” He grins at Eddie’s positively appalled expression. “And you said you didn’t like karaoke...You’re a liar, Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“I am not!” Eddie hisses at him. He’s crimson-cheeked and his eyes are dark and again, it’s unfair that he looks this good in the morning, let alone on a morning where he should be dealing with a filthy hangover. “Take it back.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Fine. Then I won’t give you these.”

Richie looks down into Eddie’s open palm to see two oblong Advil pills. He practically moans at the sight of them.

“Where’d you get those?”

“Where do you think, dumbass?” Eddie huffs impatiently. He’s at least given up on his pretence of reading the paper by now. “I brought them with me. Do you want them or not?”

“Yes, please,” Richie says, because he’s weak and pathetic and he thinks his head might explode from the pain. “You’re not a liar. You’re the most wonderful man in the world.”

Distantly, he thinks that he should probably consider drinking the water next time, instead of relying on the painkillers in the morning. He also recognises that he’s absolutely not going to do that, because he is a disaster of a man and he hasn’t made one good choice in his life.

Eddie’s already pulling the chair beside him out from under the table for Richie, though, so he pushes himself away from the wall, just about making it to the chair before he all but collapses. There’s a glass of water waiting, and it looks like the best thing in the world right now. Why couldn’t he have felt this way about water last night? This is an absolutely rotten hangover, and he’s actually feeling a little miserable about it; he swallows down the pills in one gulp with a mouthful of the water, and resigns himself to the next long thirty minutes or so before they actually start to kick in. 

His body works against him every time he gets blind drunk, throwing his body clock way out of sync. He rose with the sun today, spending a good half hour groaning and grumbling in the sanctuary of his bed whilst the light streamed in through the window and instigated this currently blinding headache he’s experiencing. 

He’s too old for this.

“I’m too old for this.” He complains aloud.

“Mm, yeah.” Eddie makes a sound that’s faintly one of agreement, but the rustling of the paper tells Richie that he’s actually returned to reading instead of paying attention to him, which is -- rude.

“I blame you.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“This is all your fault.”

“If you say so, Rich.”

Richie breaks. “How are you so --” He gesticulates at Eddie clumsily, almost knocking his glass of water over in the process. “-- Like this!”

Eddie’s dark brows slant over a pair of mildly amused eyes. “Like what?”

“Like you’re not even hungover!”

“I am.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m not being a big baby about it, that’s all.”

“You suck.”

“No, I think it’s you that sucks.”

“Edward! Are you making a joke about my sexuality?”

“What?!” He looks horrified at that, mouth dropping open. It shouldn’t be attractive but it is. “No! What the hell, Richie, that’s _not_ what I mean --”

“I’m kidding.” Richie props his head up with his hand on the table tiredly. “Please don’t yell. My head can’t take that right now.”

Astonishingly, it works. It looks like it takes Eddie a Herculean amount of effort not to continue with whatever tirade he was about to go on, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times. Blessedly, it says shut after the third attempt, his lips twisting with the struggle of it. 

The resulting quiet is almost peaceful. He returns to flicking through the newspaper lazily -- and seriously, what the hell, because Richie didn’t even know that thing was delivered here -- and Richie closes his eyes for a moment or two. He must doze off during that time, because when he opens his eyes with a start, Eddie is no longer sitting beside him. He’s dutifully loading the dishwasher over on the other side of the kitchen, stacking plates amongst the neat, iron rows.

“Let me help.” Richie offers, reaching for his now empty glass and making a move to stand.

Except his back makes an agonising complaint about it, compelling him to remain seated and release a groan. It sounds pained even to his own years.

“What’s wrong?” 

He looks up at Eddie confusedly. “I don’t know. My back --”

Realisation dawns upon Eddie’s face, which is nice and all, but Richie doesn’t understand it, until, “I told you not to dance on the table!”

Jesus.

He’s _definitely_ too old for this shit.

“Probably pulled it when I was banging your mom all night.” he mumbles, because it hurts.

He should probably just go and lie down again, drowning himself in his own misery. He’s only being slightly dramatic about this, because it really does feel like the hangover from hell, and he would gladly let Pennywise take him right about now. Like, if the clown magically rose from the dead and came back, Richie would be fucked -- there’s no chance of him even getting out of this chair, let alone running from a manic demon-clown. He’d really have no choice but to sit back and wait for the end to come.

“Where does it hurt?”

Eddie’s voice comes from right beside him suddenly, making him jolt. It sends another bout of pain resounding through his muscles and he winces with it.

Lifting his arm, he motions as best he can towards the sorest spot along the top of his shoulders. The movement makes him feel a little sick and he rubs at his temples tiredly.

“Take your shirt off.”

Well. That gets his attention. He whips his head around so fast he’s sure he hears it click, entire face wrinkling with his confused shock. “Uh--”

“Don’t be weird about it, god, take your damn shirt off!” Eddie folds his arms across his chest.

There’s no way that Richie can’t _not_ be weird about this. He hopes that Eddie knows that. His fingers tug at the hem of his t-shirt but he stops before he can lift it up and over his head, bizarrely self-conscious in the moment. “I don’t--”

Eddie sighs. “Richie, I’ve seen you shirtless almost every day this month. Just take it off.”

That’s fair. You can’t live in the blistering heat of the Californian sun without stripping off every now and again (or every single day, if you’re Richie and Eddie). Still. There’s something decidedly heavier about this moment than there is about any other situation in which he’s been semi naked in front of his best friend, and it’s incredibly off-putting for him. Eddie’s thin-lipped with single-mindedness even as the tips of his ears turn a faint crimson, and Richie recognises that it’s better to get this over with than to argue with him on it.

“If you wanted to see me naked you could have just asked.” He mumbles weakly, aiming for a laugh that doesn’t quite land. The shirt comes off in a move that is graceless, his arm getting caught in one of the holes and his glasses almost flying off before he catches them with his hand, and -- look, Richie’s taken his shirt off in front of plenty of people before, and it’s never been this awkward, okay?

Almost as soon as the shirt comes off Eddie’s hands are on him. Vaguely, he thinks that he should have expected this, but he doesn’t really know _what_ he was expecting -- honestly, no valid explanation for why Eddie wanted him to take off his shirt had really entered his mind and, even if it had, this would be the farthest thing from what he would have settled on. 

The tips of Eddie’s fingers are gentle and warm as they brush across the curve of his back, but that doesn’t stop Richie from shivering beneath the touch. The fingers stop abruptly and Richie swallows, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.

“Sorry…” Eddie says quietly. “Are my hands cold?”

Richie shakes his head. He keeps his gaze trained on the table in front of him, his torso half hunched over it so that Eddie has room to -- do whatever it is he’s doing back there.

“There’s no bruising or anything. Maybe you pulled a muscle?”

That makes sense. Probably. Nothing makes sense to Richie right now; he can only nod, hoping that he doesn’t look as brainless as he feels, hoping that he looks as though he’s listening to Eddie and not actually hearing nothing but white noise (which is pretty much the case).

Eddie presses a thumb into the gap between his shoulder blades and Richie all but melts, collapsing even further onto the table top.

“Guh.” He says intelligently. The blood rushing to his head is doing absolutely nothing to calm the swell of his migraine, but he can’t bring himself to care. “What are you--”

Eddie huffs from behind him. He’s so close that the exhale hits Richie on the back of the neck, hairs standing to attention immediately. “Giving you a massage, dumbass.” He says, like it’s obvious.

Richie realises it probably _should_ be obvious, given that Eddie’s taken to kneading the muscles along his shoulders, hitting all the right spots with astonishing accuracy, but he figures he can cut himself some slack. If his brain doesn’t turn into jelly and fall out of his ears within the next thirty seconds, he’s going to congratulate himself on doing a good job at holding it together. Later. In private. After he’s cried about this whole religious experience.

“How--” He swallows down a groan when Eddie rubs at a particularly sensitive knot. “How do you know how to do this?”

“I’m not a qualified massage therapist if that’s what you’re asking, jackass.” Eddie’s really dishing out the pet names today. Sure, they all end in ass and they’re all mostly insulting, but Richie finds them incredibly charming. Sue him. “But I run.” He continues like it’s self-explanatory.

Which it isn’t, _what the hell?_

He must be able to feel the puzzled vibes coming off of Richie in waves, despite not being able to see his face right now, because he follows this up with, “I did some research when I started running, okay? In case I ever needed it. Running can be very strenuous on your muscles.”

It makes no sense but all the sense in the world. It’s Eddie, so of course he’s researched deep tissue massages in case of emergency if ever he needed to stretch out his calves or hamstrings or something. Richie isn’t surprised at the knowledge, exactly, but he is surprised at the fact that Eddie’s just now whipping it out, and he’s -- really going to town, too.

His hands are gentle but firm as they manipulate the muscles in Richie’s back, working right down into the soft tissue in a way that’s bordering on the edge of painful but feels _so good_. It’s embarrassing how good it feels. It takes all of five minutes before Richie’s moaning wantonly, letting little groans of pleasured torment slip from his lips; lost in the sensation of Eddie’s hands working his back and shoulders and neck until he’s focusing only on how amazing it feels, instead of on the fact that this is awful for him and he’ll be thinking about this (guilty, with plenty of shame) every time he jerks off for the next year.

Eddie seems utterly undisturbed by the noises that he’s making, not once faltering in the way he’s kneading at Richie’s skin, tugging and pushing and digging with his fingertips, his knuckles, the ball of his palm where it meets his thumb and holy shit! Richie isn’t convinced that he’s _not_ qualified in this, despite what he had said earlier, because there’s no way he should be adept at this without having some sort of certificate. People train for this and -- what? Eddie’s just picking it up from a few articles he’s read online with that information-retaining brain of his? Usually it seems to be retaining the kind of information that Richie would describe as purely useless -- statistics on rare diseases like acquired hemophilia or the death rate for crocodile attacks on Florida (okay, that one is actually pretty cool) -- but this. This is definitely not useless information. This could be the greatest thing Eddie has ever found himself to be skilled at, so far as Richie is concerned.

He’s willing to admit that he may be a little biased. Especially right now.

After what feels like a decade and a second all at the same time, Eddie’s hands retreat and Richie can feel him step away; the body heat that he hadn’t realised belonged to Eddie departing with him. He shivers again, this time at the loss of touch, keeping his face firmly rested on the table. He doesn’t think he can lift his head yet; his entire body feels boneless, spine more relaxed under Eddie’s ministrations than it has been in a long, long time.

He does turn his head to the side so that he can look at Eddie, though. Eddie who seems to be doing an excellent job of not meeting his eyes; whose face is so red that Richie worries that there won’t be any blood left in any other part of his body at this rate.

“There. Hopefully that feels better.” He says quickly, words almost stumbling over one another in their effort to get out of his mouth. “I have to go and iron my shirt.”

God, Richie’s forgotten how fast he is when he wants to be. He swears he can see the motion lines Eddie makes as he practically runs from the kitchen in a totally normal and not at all awkward way.

It’s probably for the best.

Richie closes his eyes for a moment. The phantom press of Eddie’s fingertips tracing along the breadth of his back makes him gulp, snapping his eyes back open if only for the confirmation that he is alone, and that that is definitely all now in his head. He doesn’t think that’s much better. He’s already been ruined for anyone else, but now? Knowing what it’s like to have Eddie’s hands on him, even in a way that was intended to be so innocent? He doesn’t know if he’ll ever recover from this.

The guy is going to give him a heart attack, he swears it.

When a healthy amount of time passes and he’s sure that Eddie is locked away upstairs, he makes the decision to move. It’s only then that Richie realises he has something of a situation himself, eyes dropping to the lap. A forlorn groan is all but ripped from him, and he’s thankful that Eddie isn’t around to hear that one. It’s not the first time he’s popped a boner in Eddie’s presence and it won’t be the last (has he mentioned that his body is a traitor?), but he thinks this might be the most painfully hard he has been in years. Swallowing, he gingerly holds his t-shirt in front of him, making the trek to the safety of his own room with an ungainly and mildly uncomfortable walk and the fear that Eddie is going to catch him in the act with his dick quite literally out.

Fuck. He hates himself for all the decisions he’s ever made that have led him to this moment.

Later, when he still finds himself agonizing over the situation having not seen or heard from Eddie in two hours -- which is difficult, when you’re living in the same house with someone -- he redownloads Grindr pitifully and vows to manage his needs better. For his own health, as much as anyone else’s.


	2. the seasons will change

The thing is, Eddie thinks about it a lot.

It’s like he can’t _stop_ thinking about it.

In the few days between the ‘massage incident’ and now, it’s been pretty much the only constant his brain has been able to settle on. It makes no sense to him, he has no idea why he’s suddenly so tied up in knots about something that was, in essence, entirely innocent in motive; but therein lies the issue. What had been virtuous to begin with had quickly become something all the more sensual -- which is crazy! He’s not a sensual person. He thinks that if there was a sliding scale of sensuality, he would be somewhere near the bottom of it, tied for last place with the big yellow bird from Sesame Street. There is absolutely nothing fuckable about that bird.

Which is -- besides the point. Shit.

His head is a minefield these days, and he doesn’t know what thoughts are safe and what aren’t; each new one he comes across seeming vaguely threatening from the start, bringing with it this distinct fear that it could blow up if he considers it for too long, and he’ll be left in an even bigger mess than he is in right now.

The massage. He thinks about it consistently, lets it play out in his mind on repeat like his head is a movie theatre and this is the only damn movie they have in right now. It’s incredibly confusing for him, not least because it’s _Richie_.

As usual, Eddie settles on a practical solution for why this has suddenly become such a big thing for him. It makes sense, when he thinks about it. As a man whose sex life has been nothing but perfunctory and monotonous for the past -- well, ten years, give or take -- it seems like a natural bodily reaction. And yeah, he _did_ have some bodily reactions. The recollection makes him feel flustered even though nobody is around to see it.

But. The point is. He thinks it’s fine. Natural, even. It’s an instinctive physical reaction, albeit one that hasn’t occurred so frequently for him in the past.

If he looks past the fact that it was Richie whose body he was kneading oh so carefully, and the fact that Richie is, indeed, a man, then he can force this all to make at least a little sense.

Frankly, he’s a little proud of his body; he doesn’t think it’s had such an immediate reaction to anything in this way in years, but that’s neither here nor there.

With the sounds that had been tumbling out of Richie’s parted lips, and the feeling of the supple muscles beneath his hands… it’s understandable that he was able to get a little too lost in the moment. Maybe this is his body’s way of telling him that it does actually want to seek the comfort of another’s warmth against it, but -- the thought of that is fairly humiliating for a variety of reasons. He’s forty fucking one, he has a general idea of how dating works for people in this day and age, and he wants absolutely nothing to do with it, thank you very much. The sound of a life in solitude is not exactly appealing to him either, but it’s pretty much what he’s had since long before Derry, so… he figures he can survive. His body will survive; it will behave, because he will make it behave.

His abrupt departure had admittedly made things a little awkward between them for a few hours leading into a day. It was a period of time that had left Eddie feeling out of sorts -- wanting to reach out to Richie and talk to him, but balking at the last minute, worried that he had eternally fucked this up with this thoughtless mistake of his. If he hadn’t reacted so awfully, then he thinks it would have been okay. What’s a massage between friends? Nothing! A massage between friends when the one giving the massage flees the room and doesn’t leave his bedroom for three hours thereafter? Potentially friendship destroying. 

It’s not. Of course it’s not.

Richie had found him the next day, red-faced and stammering through an apology like he thought that this entire debacle was his fault, and Eddie had felt awful. It made sense that the way he had reacted in the aftermath had left Richie feeling like he was somehow to blame; a truly horrendous thought had entered his mind that Richie might think that Eddie had fled so hurriedly and without explanation because of the fact that Richie was gay, like he’d only just realised that he was touching him or something, and that was -- so far from the truth it physically pained him to consider that it could be a thought in Richie’s mind. 

Eddie had interrupted his apology with one of his own, but he hadn’t told the whole truth of it. Mostly, he wasn’t -- isn’t -- sure what the whole truth is. He couldn’t very well tell Richie that he had been getting at least half hard because of the whole thing; that would have opened up a conversation that he was not ready to acknowledge, let alone have. If he couldn’t even make sense of the situation himself then how was he going to address it with Richie? It had been better -- easier -- to simply apologise and brush it under the carpet, and that was precisely what had happened.

Now, things are entirely back to normal. Nothing more than a blip in the road, one which had lasted less than twenty four hours and could be identified as their first real incident in the ‘moving in saga’. Eddie counts it as a win, when he thinks about all the other things that could possibly have gone wrong where he and Richie are concerned (there are too many to count; they are infinite).

It’s fine.

Except for the fact that he’s _still thinking about it_.

It’s embarrassing, is what it is, because he feels like a teenager replaying the first ponographic movie he’s ever seen in his mind over and over, unsure of when he’s going to get to see any more content quite like it. Save for the fact that he never actually had that experience as a teenager, of course, because even back then the thought of engaging in any of those activities that the other boys were interested in felt… dirty. Wrong.

He really does have his mother’s parenting to thank for so much. At least, at this stage in life, he is more comfortable with things of the sexual nature; even if his experience leaves much to be desired.

This isn’t one of the things that falls into the comfortable category, though. This thing is something that could become a massive problem for him, he thinks, not least of all because he finds himself worried that he’s going to start doing this everywhere. Just -- getting hard at the drop of a pin. Like he’s going to find himself in the supermarket trying to decide whether to get the aubergines or the tomatoes and boom -- he’s going to have to slink his way back out of the doors and to the safety of his car before anyone notices and accuses him of being some kind of pervert.

The thought makes him feel like he needs to lie down; perhaps with a cold compress plastered to his forehead. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the time for this. Fortunately, he does recognise that his thoughts are also incredibly irrational and the likelihood that his body is going to revert to that with the hair-trigger of a teenager purely because he got a divorce and moved out and started living his life is crazy. That’s not what’s happening here. One incident does not a pattern make, even if that one incident crosses his mind at least three times a day.

Shit.

Running his hands over his pants and the imaginary creases that he knows aren’t actually there, Eddie looks across the room to cast an eye over the clock on the wall. His interview will be starting any moment now. He’s not nervous, per se, but he does wish that he’d spent the last hour thinking about anything other than the incident, because _that_ makes him nervous. It’s bound to have some sort of domino effect on how he performs in the interview and -- no. He won’t think like that. He can’t think like that. His mindfulness app tells him to be positive on a daily basis; the only thing he’s positive about is that he can, and will, throw the damn phone out of the window if it sends him any more of those irritating reminders.

Or he could delete the app. That would be the most logical first step in dealing with this tiny inconvenience to his life stemming from an app that he has willingly installed.

Just as he thumbs over the screen to do exactly this, his name is called by the person conducting the interviews. He puts his phone away and gets up, ignoring the way the waiting room chair groans at the motion, and he puts on his most winning smile. He shakes the man's hand firmly, despite his discomfort for hand shaking and general touching with strangers, and he valiantly resists against reaching for the hand sanitizer that he keeps to hand wherever he goes. It doesn’t always leave the best first impression; they didn’t care about his quirks and his weirdness at the last company, but that had been a different time and a different place, and he knows better than to reveal too much of himself too soon when it comes to these scenarios.

The interview goes well enough. At least from their point of view, he knows himself to be the perfect candidate. He’s meticulously combed through his resume many times over the years, despite believing that he would never once need to use it, and there has been very little housekeeping that he has had to do with regards to updating it now. They ask him about the move; he wears a polished smile and tells them that he craved the warmer weather and softer shores. They bring up his experience and his track record with his previous company time and time again -- enough so that he recognises that they are impressed, even before they say so in as many words. To them, he is exactly what they are looking for. From the squeaky clean of his brown loafers to the neatly cropped and parted hair atop his head, he looks every bit the part for the role that he is applying for, because he _is_ every bit the part for this role. He’s played it for well over fourteen years now; knows the subtle nuances and the things that make these people tick. For all purposes, he has been ‘these people’.

When Eddie steps out of the office building, he knows without a doubt in his mind that he has the job in the bag.

The only thing he doesn’t know is how much he actually wants this job.

Actually, that’s a lie -- he knows that he _doesn’t_ want this job, not really. He recognises that it is a safe option that will help him to provide for himself, in a position that is higher up even than that which he had in New York; knows that it is a role that would see him through the rest of his years comfortably, without anything coming along to really threaten the foundations of the life which he is building for himself here.

His comfort zone is a place that he likes to be. It’s a place that he has forced himself into time and time again over the years, only recently testing the boundaries of this; only recently stepping outside of the box to see what he can find on the other side of the walls. The other side, he’s finding, can be far more exhilarating.

The grass isn’t always greener, and he’s not so naive as to believe that it is -- but within the last few months of his life, it _has_ been. Every single time. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?

He thinks about it for the entirety of the journey home, his leg shifting up and down in the Uber (because yes, he refuses to take public transport after the last time Richie convinced him to do it ‘for the experience’ and they’d wound up almost being _thrown up on_ ) and his teeth worrying over his bottom lip until it feels numb beneath the surface. 

Well. At least, he thinks a little deliriously, his mind has found something to distract himself from the incident that had been stealing his attention _before_ the interview.

Eddie has always been someone to follow and obey his head. Lately, there’s been a shift in the way he makes his decisions, because he’s been making them for himself -- and that means that his heart has had something to do with each and every one of them.

He’s not sure that he’s going to accept this job, if they offer it to him (and they _will_ offer it to him). And then he thinks, _what the hell am I going to do instead_ ? Because although he has bookmarked a number of job ads that seem completely out of the ordinary for him and his experience in the workplace, he hasn’t quite had the courage to send an application or a resume through for any of them. Every time he’s gotten to that last stage of pressing the submit button, something has stopped him. He can blame it on the environment -- the fact that someone had knocked on the door once with a delivery, or the time that Richie had come bounding into the room like an exuberant puppy, demanding that Eddie hear this one segment he had come up with for his next show -- and he does, mostly. He _wants_ to. He doesn’t want to admit that it’s only because he’s too chicken shit to actually, truly think about changing the path of his career this late in his life.

Who could really blame him? He’s positive that most people his age would balk at the very mention of quitting their jobs and jumping headfirst into something else, even if that something was something that they really wanted; something that they’d thought about their whole life but had never had the guts to pursue.

Which -- this is one of those things for him. The thing that he is thinking about doing is a lifelong dream. A childhood dream that never left, despite how much his mother warned him against it. Maybe _because_ of the way she had warned him against it. He does not have time to unpack the layers of that thought right now and, fuck -- that reminds him that he still hasn’t done any research into acquiring a therapist. He makes a mental note that he will probably forget -- or file away purposely -- in a few hours, but it’s the thought that counts.

In the wake of the interview, Eddie knows that he should feel good; proud about it. He hasn’t had many interviews in his life, given that he basically walked straight into the job back in New York fresh out of college and never looked back (until now), but even if he had, he knows instinctively that the interview he has just had would still be the best of them. He knows what it’s like to be recognised as someone valuable, at least in the workforce, and that… that was definitely it. He should feel happy, safe in the knowledge that he’s going to get a job offer probably within the next few days, and he won’t have to worry about this again.

He merely feels a little torn, instead.

The last few months have been good to him, and he hasn’t had many days that could be classified as bad since he’s arrived in LA. Unfortunately, this looks like it’s going to be the first. There’s something uneasy settling in his stomach, the sort of anxiety that demands to be acknowledged, and he hasn’t felt that so strongly for a while. It’s not been _gone_ \-- he knows that that’s not how this works. But he’s been able to keep it at bay, amazingly, with everything that’s been going on in his life, and he feels bitter about the fact that this is what is going to break that progress; something so inconsequential that should be good but for some reason just feels the opposite.

It doesn’t make sense, but he’s given up on trying to make sense of his own feelings and worries and fears. They’re not something he can understand, for the most part. Only things that he experiences -- sometimes knowing how to connect the dots to certain occurrences that have happened either recently or in the past, but most of the time he finds it easier to let them happen and doesn’t bother to try and fathom it. You can acknowledge something without knowing it; a lesson he’s learned over time.

What Eddie wants is to forget about all of this for a while. It’s not a shitty day, but it’s a shitty feeling. He presses the tip of his finger to the bridge of his nose in the back of the cab, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, exhaling to the count of eight, and he consciously chooses not to think about the fact that the driver can probably see him doing this in the rearview mirror right now; probably thinks he’s having a breakdown or he’s crazy or something, and he doesn’t really know if that would actually be that far off the truth --

He forces himself to stop that train of thought. He can’t quite clear his mind, but he doesn’t actually think _anyone_ can do that, regardless of what these mindfulness apps and articles say. He’s tried meditation; it didn’t work. It just made him hyper-conscious of everything that was going on in his surroundings instead, which is literally the opposite of the desired effect. He and his thoughts are destined to be as one forever, and that’s fine. It’s more manageable now than it once was, at least

It’s not that far of a journey to make between the company building and home. He concentrates on the window instead, letting his eyes watch the world pass him by from the back passenger seat, because it’s something that he’s found he likes doing. He’s never appreciated the positives of being a passenger before; always being the driver back in NYC. 

Even though he’s used to the city and everything that it has to offer now (both good and bad) he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of being able to do this; taking in the sights at different times of the day, depending on where he is and what they’re doing. Usually he’s with Richie and Richie has the radio turned up loud and he’s singing along with whatever song that comes on, nudging and crooning at Eddie to try and get him to sing along too, even though he very rarely does.

This isn’t quite as good as that; just him and his Uber driver, who hasn’t said anything more than two words to him since they’d met, but it’ll do.

LA isn’t exactly relaxed, but it’s far less manic than New York is, in some weird way. Especially at this time of day; when things are only now beginning to wind down for the evening, though the sun is still high and the sky is still light. The days feel endless in these summer months, and he almost wishes that they were. Not this day specifically, but the rest of them; the ones that he’s found himself enjoying to their fullest, feeling nostalgic for them even when they’re only beginning to come to a close, even though he knows that the next day will bring with it much of the same. He watches the fluorescent lights of the bars and the shops along the road pass him by, the colors blurring into one with the speed at which they’re travelling, and he smooths his palms along his now still legs. The up, down jerking movement of them has stopped without him having to force it, so maybe he’s a little less stressed than before.

Maybe not, though. The motion of his stomach is unpleasant and leaves him feeling nauseous; he’s not going to throw up because he never does, but it’s just that sensation that stays with him for hours after the anxiety inducing thing has happened. Familiar to him at this point but by no means comfortable.

He finds himself looking forward to getting to the sanctuary of their home. He wants to see Richie, he thinks instantly. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to explain how he’s feeling or why he’s feeling it, but he knows that Richie won’t care about that, so much. He’ll just do what he can to make Eddie feel better -- he’ll cook him whatever he wants and he’ll tell him some stupid, ridiculous jokes that Eddie will roll his eyes at and shoot down but, in the end, they both know he’ll be unable to bite back the laughter for long. He’s always been weak for Richie’s jokes somehow, the loudest of all the laughter coming from him when they were kids, back when he thought he was the only one in the world who believed Richie to be funny. Clearly he’s been proven wrong, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not something special, the bond that they’ve had since childhood, brought together through trauma and poor jokes.

Richie knows how to brighten Eddie’s day. He knows _when_ to do it, too, even without asking; he can read the shifts in Eddie’s personality, regardless of whether some of them are practically imperceptible. Eddie isn’t always the most subtle of people -- very rarely is he, actually -- but he knows how to hide his mood patterns when he needs to. Not from Richie, though. Never from Richie.

He’s his best friend, and he needs him more than he wants to; more than he thinks Richie knows. It still makes him cringe a little, to use the word ‘best friend’ like they aren’t in their forties, but he’s getting better with it -- because best friends are exactly what they are, what they have always been, what he hopes they will always be. What’s twenty seven years of missed opportunities when you’ve never connected with anyone like you have that kid from back when you were thirteen anyway? 

It’s nothing. They’ve made up for the lost time tenfold during the past few months, anyway.

It’s easy to get to know someone when you’ve already been carrying a part of them around with you for your whole life. There was a lot to catch one another up on -- the same can be said for their wider circle of friends, too -- but they’ve had long, lazy days to do exactly that, and it’s been a period of Eddie’s life that he knows he will never forget. That he thinks he will look back on with the fondest of memories; he’s grateful for everything that’s happened.

Jesus. Even just thinking about Richie and returning home is proving to be powerful enough to distract him from his previously stressed out self. That’s good, right? It doesn’t feel like it’s _not_ a good thing, so he’ll take it for what it is.

Any remaining anxiety dissipates upon their arrival at the house. He nods his goodbye at the driver, vowing internally to give him a five star review, because Eddie actually really respects drivers that do not engage in pointless small talk, unsurprisingly, and he makes his way into the house. His home, considering that is definitely what it has become to him, and he hasn’t made any ground on finding anywhere else; too comfortable in his surroundings and not feeling any sort of fire in his belly to get out quite yet.

It’s almost eerily quiet, only the sound of his keys hitting the countertop disturbing the peace.

He frowns as he takes in the empty kitchen and lounge, poking his head out of the patio doors that lead to the garden, half expecting to find Richie asleep by the pool -- but no, he isn’t there either.

“Rich?” His own voice echoes in the quiet, and his frown deepens. His eyebrows are probably touching at this stage, but he doesn’t make a move to smooth his features.

They’re always sure to tell each other when one of them is heading out without the other; something that Eddie stressed in the beginning, obviously, but Richie has never had an issue with it, either. He always lets Eddie know when he’s going for a work meeting or when he’s heading out to see a friend (which doesn’t happen that often, even though Eddie knows that he definitely does have friends outside of the losers), leaving a note if he doesn’t have the opportunity to tell him beforehand. Automatically, Eddie checks the kitchen counter top and the fridge, lips twitching at the alphabetical magnets that Richie has -- today reordered to spell out ‘Good luck Eds’, because Richie can be sweet when he wants to be -- but there’s nothing there to suggest that Richie is out right now.

It’s curious, but not that weird. Eddie figures he’s probably busy typing away at his laptop within the office, working on his show with his earphones in, drowning out the world. Which, if that is the case, he knows he should go and check on him. When Richie really gets in the zone with his work, he tends to forget to take breaks for anything other than using the bathroom and drinking coffee, and Eddie doesn’t really want a repeat of what happened three weeks ago -- when Richie hadn’t cooked for three nights and Eddie had realised that that also meant that he hadn’t eaten anything beyond a few bowls of Lucky Charms, either. He exhales loudly at the prospect of having to face a similar situation now, beginning the trek up the staircase to the top level of the building.

He’s already bracing himself for the worst when he pushes open the door to the office, but comes up short when he realises it’s empty.

Huh.

A quick check of his wristwatch tells him that it’s only 5.25 in the afternoon, which is definitely too early for Richie to have taken to bed -- unless he was feeling unwell or something, and that makes Eddie frown again for completely different reasons. He doesn’t have any unread text messages or missed calls, and although he appreciates that Richie was probably trying not to bother him in his interview (please, like he would leave his phone on loud during such a meeting anyway), he’s also a little disappointed that he _hasn’t_ contacted him. If he’s poorly, Eddie wants to know about it -- even if it’s nothing but a headache or something else seemingly insignificant. He gets that he’s probably one of the last people that Richie wants to tell when he’s feeling under the weather because of his aversion to illnesses and his uncanny ability to list off statistics and facts about said illnesses, but… he wouldn’t do that if someone was actually ill. He also wouldn’t not be there for Richie, even if he was, like, throwing up or something -- yeah, the thought makes him feel gross, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to leave his friend to suffer alone.

Of course, this could all be pointless, because Richie is likely not unwell, making this train of thought null and void for now. But Eddie’s habit of overthinking is not one that can be overhauled by a few months beneath the golden Californian sun, as much as he wishes that that were the case.

The darkness up here is obvious with the blinds on the landing drawn and all of the doors closed; usually there’s at least one open, allowing natural light from the windows to filter through to the hallway, so it strikes him as unusual. It makes him feel as though it’s later in the day than it actually is. He takes the time to open the blinds, if only because he prefers to have the light; the sun is waning slightly in the sky now, but it still casts a glow over everything that it touches, making it all look softer. 

From this vantage point, he can look down into the garden below -- most of which is submerged in the shade now -- and categorically confirm that he hasn’t somehow overlooked Richie in his quick check of the outdoors. It looks incredibly peaceful down there, though, a faint breeze rippling across the surface of the water, the leaves of the palm trees just barely swaying with it.

He pauses outside Richie’s bedroom door. It’s not a place that he usually ventures, having not had any need to do so in the past, but -- the idea of Richie possibly being unwell leaves him feeling discomfited in a way that he knows won’t settle until he can disprove it. As demanding of attention as Richie can be, he’s still someone who won’t want to make a big deal out of something that’s actually bothering him; it’s Eddie’s job to uncover the truth instead of making Richie ask for what he needs, and he’s learned this by now -- to the extent that he’s become attuned to Richie’s needs and making decisions based on that without requiring his input. Taking care of Richie is all about the _doing_ and none of the talking.

It’s not exactly healthy, but Eddie’s in no position to make judgement on what constitutes a healthy coping mechanism; not when his idea of coping is dropping everything and moving across the country. Whatever. It’s still one of the best decisions he’s made, he’s not going to start scrutinizing it for anything more than that right now.

That’ll be a job for his therapist, when he actually decides to get one.

He knocks once and then, because he has not one shred of patience in his five foot nine body, he pushes the door open without waiting for a response.

As far as mistakes go, he recognises this one as being fairly substantial from the get go.

There’s an (awful, terrible) moment where he lingers in the doorway, eyes acclimatising to the ill-lit room, and then he sees that Richie is in bed -- or rather, he’s on the bed. 

He’s also not alone.

“Oh, shit.” Eddie says.

“What -- fuck!” Richie says.

“Uh--” The unidentified third person in the room says.

The one syllable attached to an unfamiliar voice is enough to spark Eddie into action. He half jumps backwards out of the room, raising one hand to cover his eyes, even though he can’t see much and what he can see he’s _already_ seen, so it feels like it’s a bit late for modesty right about now.

“Oh, my god.” He mutters half to himself, blindly bumping his hip into the doorway as he vacates the room, choking out a curse word at the way the bruised bone smarts at the contact. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was here!”

“I thought you were out!” Richie’s voice sounds all strangled. Eddie can’t see him, because he’s still covering his eyes with his hand, but he’s almost certain that Richie is crimson and burning with it right about now. “You said -- I thought you had an interview!”

“Yeah!” Eddie winces at the sharp tone of his own voice. He presses back against the wall in the hallway, just outside the door, and he drops his hand. It’s probably safe to do that now, right? “It started an hour and a half ago!”

He hears Richie mumble, “Shit,” followed by the muffled thud of something (or someone) hitting the ground. There’s a few more expletives released in the aftermath, but he can’t quite make them out.

His heart is kicking against his ribs in an erratic rhythm, the rushing of his own blood the loudest thing to him right now; distantly, he understands that there’s something more than mortification going on here, but he’s not quite ready to address -- whatever that is. Ideally, he would quite like to disappear. Like, that’s the dream right now. It would make his life immeasurably more agreeable.

Richie’s head pokes around the doorframe and -- yep, Eddie was right. His face looks like it’s been scalded it’s so violently red; the colour blooming all the way down his throat to the top of his bare chest that Eddie can currently see because Richie still hasn’t put a shirt on. Back on. Because apparently whatever he was in the middle of -- and Eddie is _so_ glad that he didn’t witness too much of that -- requires him to be less clothed than he usually is.

They grimace at one another.

“Sorry.” They both say at the same time.

Eddie shakes his head, releasing a weak chuckle. “No, this one is on me! I only knocked once -- _once_! Who does that? Shit, I’m sorry. I should have waited to see if you’d heard me, I was just worried when I saw you weren’t downstairs and --”

“It’s fine.” Richie interrupts him. He’s fixated on the floor, the wall opposite, the space to the left of Eddie’s head -- anywhere but actually _at_ Eddie. His voice still seems stifled. “I wouldn’t have… I thought you’d be out later.”

Which -- Eddie isn’t sure how to feel about that, actually. He doesn’t know what Richie’s angle is with that; is he only trying to be polite and save Eddie the embarrassment, or does he think that Eddie will be weird about the fact that he’s hooking up with men? Because he’s not -- that’s not an issue. There’s no issue here. There _shouldn’t_ be an issue here.

He feels a little faint, all of a sudden.

“I’m going to leave you to it.” The words don’t sound like they’re his, but they are. His lips are definitely moving. “I’ll, uh… just be. In my room. I’ll see you later.”

Except he doesn’t move. He says he’s going to move and he doesn’t. He feels like his feet are glued to the floor, stopping him from doing what he needs to do (which is leave! He knows this). Richie looks at him with a strange expression on his face for a moment, before he nods, and retreats back into the room like he’s realised that Eddie isn’t quite capable of doing what he’s said he’s going to do right now. He might need a minute or five.

There are muted voices coming from the room when Richie goes back in (and, honestly, if he can hear this now, why couldn’t he hear anything _before_? That could have saved him a whole lot of embarrassment). Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, eyes darting up the corridor to his own closed door, and then he presses himself closer to the wall carefully; closer to the conversation that’s going on behind it. 

“You live with someone? You didn’t tell me you live with someone.”

“It’s not like that,” Richie dismisses whatever concerns the guy has immediately. “He’s just my room-mate. House-mate. Whatever.”

Eddie’s heart clenches. Which is stupid. This is stupid -- and _wrong_ , on so many levels. He shouldn’t even be listening to this, let alone getting his feelings hurt listening to this, a conversation that he isn’t privy to and -- what has he got to feel so glaringly annoyed about anyway? All Richie’s said is the truth. 

“-- Can’t believe Trashmouth Tozier has a _room-mate_.” The guy is saying, and his tone is all wrong; it’s got the knife’s edge of something mocking to it, something that immediately gets Eddie’s hackles up and has him wanting to barge back into the room and demand he explain himself, but he doesn’t. Obviously. He can’t. He’s not about to go all Crazy Ex-Girlfriend in this scenario.

The conversations dwindles rapidly, but he isn’t even really listening by that point. He makes his way to his room quietly, careful with his footsteps so as not to alert them that he hadn’t left when he’d said he would, and he purposely does not think about what has just happened (except he does, of course, it’s all he thinks about). 

Like, is that guy Richie’s boyfriend or something? The thought makes him scowl until he realises what a weird reaction that is; how peculiar it makes him -- scowling away in the comfort of his own room.

God. What a shitty day. It’s only about 6:15 pm by the time he decides to call it a night and crawl into the safety of his bed, even though he knows that this is going to fuck up his sleeping pattern and that he will be wretchedly crabby about it for the next few days -- but for the first time in a while, he just wants to see an end to this day. He doesn’t think he’s had this early of a night since he was a teenager, getting told by his mother that they were moving away from Derry and leaving everything he had there behind. This day probably doesn’t beat that one on the scale of ‘Bad Days’, but it feels like it could be up there.

His last thought is that he hopes that guy is not Richie’s boyfriend. That Richie doesn’t _want_ him to be his boyfriend. Look, he doesn’t know the guy, obviously, but -- from what he could discern during that brief meeting, Richie can do better than him, he knows it. He finds himself hoping that Richie knows it too.

*

It’s a rare day where the temperature falls below the burning pits of hell and becomes just cool enough to be actually enjoyable. Even on saying that, though, Richie can feel the beads of sweat trickling along his back and into the troughs formed between muscles and body tissue, catching in these various spots as the sweats travels downwards. He feels far too lethargic to care; lying face down with his head resting upon his crossed forearms, dark hairs mussed up with the drag of his face across the skin there.

As a rule, he doesn’t generally spend that much time exploring the beaches of southern California, if only because most of them are hot spots for crowds of tourists regardless of what time of the day it is; but when he’d heard Eddie say he’d _never been to a beach before_ \- well, he’d known instantly that this was something that they had to rectify. He’s undertaken to expose Eddie to a variety of things that are - in Richie’s eyes - essential experiences to any human being, and this is definitely one of them.

There had been some reluctance from Eddie, naturally. It had taken a few days for Richie to actually wear him down from “ _There is no way in hell I’m stepping foot on a beach, Richie. Do you know how much junk is in sand? Do you?_ ” to “ _It might be fun. I’ll think about it._ ”; even longer still to get to a definite positive response -- but now here they are. Whoever said hard work doesn’t pay off is a damn liar (he said that, he thinks, once upon a time, but he’s absolutely willing to own up to his errors of judgement when he’s proven to be wrong about them). 

Eddie had even driven them here today, claiming he had to get back behind the wheel even for one drive, even in the LA traffic, and Richie is entirely unsurprised to discover that he drives like a maniac. It takes him back to that fated phone call all those months ago, and Eddie’s comment about driving the speed limit, and it’s _hilarious_ to Richie because he sure would like to know what Eddie thinks the speed limit is; whatever the fuck he was doing on the way here was definitely _not it_. And the road rage - God, Richie was practically vibrating with glee the entire drive down, his face permanently in a state of abject joy, watching as Eddie became increasingly more irate and red-faced in the front seat of the car, hand constantly spasming just over the horn like he really wanted to press it on at least ten occasions. It was a terrifyingly glorious experience, and also one that Richie will remember forever because he’s a glutton for punishment and Eddie at his most vicious is a true wonder to behold. It should be limned in all its vividness, the end result hung up at the Louvre or something.

Except Richie is a little bit selfish and wants to keep it for himself (and the drivers on the other end of it, but that’s unavoidable).

Richie is definitely driving them home, though. 

He turns his head to the side purely so that he can let his gaze wander over to the man in question, who is stretched out beside him, reading a book through squinted eyes behind his sunglasses. Richie thinks it might be Bill’s latest book, which -- look, he’s already told Eddie that it’s garbage, complete and utter joyful garbage, but Eddie’s gone ahead with it anyway in that resolute way of his, so he’s fully prepared to shut Eddie down when he tries to complain about it to him later (which he will, Richie already knows he will).

At least he’s finally relaxed now, a far cry from the man who had spent the entire car ride here cursing and glaring daggers at anyone who made eye contact with him. Eddie had spent the whole of the first hour they’d been at the beach eyeing people with wary disdain and refusing to touch the sand with his bare hands, even though Richie had explained patiently and consistently that there’s no possible way of coming within a five mile radius of the beach and not getting sand in all your orifices. It’s common knowledge that you’ll still find yourself showering the grit out of your hair and your ass for days after spending time at the beach, and that’s just all part of the full glamorous experience, _baby_!

Eddie looks engrossed enough in the book that Richie’s fairly sure that he doesn’t know he’s been watched (admired, whatever, it’s all the same thing), until he says, “What do you want, Richard?” without even looking in Richie’s direction.

The use of his full name makes him pull a face. “ _Richard_ ,” he mimics. “What, am I in trouble?”

“That depends on what you want.”

“Nothing.” He says, which is true. “I was admiring the cover of that book, that’s all. It’s artistically inspired.” Which is not true.

It’s definitely Bill’s book; he can see it more clearly when Eddie tilts it to look at the cover himself, which looks like some stock photo of a secluded forest. There’s nothing artistic about it. _Richie_ could have taken that photo, and Richie barely knows how to utilise the zoom on his camera.

Eddie snorts. “I’ll be sure to let Bill now.”

“Don’t.” Richie shakes his head, rolling onto his back now that the jig is up. “He’ll have a heart attack if you tell him I’ve complimented something of his. And then we’d be without our fearless leader. We might actually fall apart.”

“You’re a dick.” Eddie says. It sounds fond, though. Richie sneaks another glance over at him to see that he’s wearing a smile; or something akin to one. The sort of smile that he doesn’t want to let show too clearly across his face, so he keeps trying to pull it down at the edges to no avail.

“Yes.” Richie agrees amicably. “I’ve built my entire career on it.”

Eddie goes quiet then. When Richie looks at him, his face is all pinched.

“Not for much longer.”

“I don’t know,” Richie hums, like he’s considering it. “I’ll probably still be a dick. Just, like -- a gay dick instead.”

“Shut up.” Eddie swats him with the book. It’s paperback but unnecessarily thick and the corner of it catches Richie in the arm. He whines and clutches the area like he’s been severely wounded, but the look Eddie gives him shut him up pretty effectively.

On instinct, his eyes trace the scarred tissue coiling around Eddie’s upper right arm, and he swallows. “Sorry.” He says, even though the word is not nearly strong enough to give weight to everything that he means with it.

Eddie only rolls his eyes. “That’s not -- I wasn’t even thinking about that.”

“Still.” Richie clucks his tongue. “It was insensitive.”

The look he gets in return is sceptical. “Since when do you care about that?”

“You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Next time, I’ll take it even further and mention amputation.”

“Now you’re _really_ being a dick.” Eddie warns him.

He’s right. 

Richie sighs, tugging at the fraying edge of his swim shorts and looking down across the length of the beach instead of saying anything more. He doesn’t know _why_ he’s being this way about it. Or, that’s a lie, and he does, but he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to explain any of it to Eddie without it coming across as pathetic and obsessive. He doesn’t really believe that Eddie will think that of him, if he tells him the truth, but he can’t be sure, and that’s not good enough for Richie to make any attempt at having this conversation properly. All he knows is that the injury that Eddie suffered that day down in the sewers is more of a sore topic for him than it is for Eddie, and that’s… probably not how these things should work. It’s just that everytime he even looks at the scar where the claw pierced the skin and the muscles and, very nearly, the tendons, he feels this overwhelming amount of guilt. It’s baseless; he knows this. There is no way in hell that he could have predicted the series of events that had led to Pennywise going after Eddie like that, and there is no way he could have stopped it from happening, either, but -- something about it still feels like it’s his fault.

But the scar is a stark reminder that Eddie survived; that he lives. Richie forces himself to think about that and not the rest of the bullshit feelings that seeing it instigates deeply within him.

He knows that his silence is enough evidence that he’s conceding this point to Eddie; that they are both well aware that he was, in fact, just being a dick, and he doesn’t have to say anything more on that, so he stays quiet.

The beach is filled to the brim with sun seekers, but he hasn’t really noticed it before now; lost in the little bubble that he and Eddie somehow manage to create around themselves whenever they’re together. The losers have one, too -- a larger bubble that incorporates every single one of them when they’re ever in the same location, or even just when they’re all talking in the group chat at the same time and ignoring the outside world. He recognises it as something that’s quite unique to them, but he doesn’t question it, and he doesn’t think he’d let anyone else question it, either. Nobody has shit to say about them or to them until they themselves have had to kill the child-murdering clown who lives in the sewers of their childhood town too. 

Settling back down against the beach towel spread open beneath him -- even though it’s not near big enough, his legs extending far over the bottom of it and onto the scorching sand below -- he lets his eyes close, intending to take a nap beneath the rays. The sound of distant laughter and the waves crashing softly against the shore assuages any knots in his stomach still left behind by the tense turn that their conversation had taken, and he tries to focus on this instead of that.

It feels like forever and no time at all before Eddie speaks again, just as Richie is about to doze off.

“Are you going to be seeing that guy again?”

“Huh?” Richie makes a questioning sound that is not quite a word, tilting his head to get a better look at Eddie.

Eddie’s still staring down at the book in his lap, his hands gripping the edges of the pages on either side, but Richie can see even from down here that he’s not progressed any further with his reading. It’s still falling open on the same page that it was on when Richie had last looked across.

“That guy,” Eddie continues. He says it like he’s talking about the weather. “From last week?”

“Oh.” Richie says, and then, “Oh,” again. 

He’d almost forgotten about that, which is remarkable in itself, considering how awkward of a situation that had been for both of them -- well, for all three of them, actually. 

The interruption by Eddie had all but killed his interest in the guy -- just someone he had happened across on Grindr, the first person who hadn’t mentioned the fact that they knew who Richie was, and who was at least vaguely attractive -- and it hadn’t been the finest moment of his life. In fact, he’d wager it to be one of the unsexiest hook ups he has ever had and, not to brag or anything, but he’s had plenty of unsexy and vaguely disgusting hook ups in his time. It comes with the territory of being a repressed, closeted gay man throughout your twenties and thirties.

It’s almost comical. In all the months that he and Eddie have now been living together, it’s only been within the past few weeks or so that they’ve had any altercations that could be potentially damaging to their friendship. The massage, which he’s vowed to himself only to think of in his moments of blind weakness (though there have already been many more of these than he had anticipated, he’s only _human_ ), and this -- the Great Grindr Debacle of 2017. He only calls it that in his own head, although he truly would love to see the reaction saying it aloud would get from Eddie; it would be comedy gold. He can practically see it already.

The question has caught him off guard, mainly because the two of them have point blank avoided discussing this in any great detail. 

After engaging in a night of medicore sex that did very little to replenish him following what was a particularly long and arduous dry spell for him, he had ushed the man (Greg? Craig, his mind helpfully supplies) out of the house with a half-hearted promise to stay in touch that Richie was quite sure he was never going to have to keep. Breakfast between him and Eddie had been strained but not intolerable, and neither of them had brought up the mishap of the night before, and by now Richie had all but assumed that they were going to act like it had never happened; something they could both merrily take to their graves with them.

The thing is, it’s not a situation that is intrinsically _that_ bad; like, sure, it’s a little embarrassing, but is it really that terrible? Would Richie have rather it hadn’t happened? Clearly. But he’s been caught in plenty of compromising situations before, by a great variety of people who would much rather have _not_ seen him in such a manner, and it’s not like Eddie had really seen much of anything. They’d both still had their pants on (though if he had arrived only five minutes or so later, Richie would not have been able to guarantee that). This kind of thing _happens_.

The problem is, naturally, that it’s Eddie who had to see that.

Richie doesn’t think Eddie has an issue with it because he’s gay; he does think that Eddie probably has an issue with sexual scenarios of any variety, though. He still blushes when there’s anything even close to heavy petting going on on the television, for Christ’s sake, it’s just -- it’s a thing that Richie’s noticed, and it’s not all that surprising, because it’s _Eddie_. Eddie who turns his nose up at the prospect of getting at all dirty -- though he will if he has to, and Richie will always be proud of him for that -- and sex is something that’s intended to be messy, at least according to Richie… he doesn’t think Eddie’s a prude. He’s not going to go that far; but he’s also not convinced that Eddie’s that comfortable with sexuality in general.

God, it’s a lot more awkward that it’s _Eddie_ than it would be if it were literally anyone else in the world, somehow.

Although, Richie has to agree that it seems like he isn’t all that perturbed by it now, if he’s at this stage; asking Richie about Greg.

He realises Eddie is looking at him expectantly. Bill’s book has been placed to the side with some amount of care, a bookmark with some sort of car on the front that Richie couldn’t name under duress keeping his place for him, and it’s oddly endearing.

He clears his throat. “Uh, right, Craig.” He thinks he sees Eddie’s eye twitch at the name drop; he also thinks this is undeniably fair. He can’t believe he slept with a _Craig_. “No, I don’t think so. More of a one time thing...”

That probably doesn’t make him sound that great, in all honesty, but since when has he really given a shit about that anyway? 

Eddie doesn’t seem to care, regardless. He does sink a little deeper back against the towel, propped up with a bag like some sort of makeshift recliner. “That’s a shame.”

“Is it? It doesn’t sound like you think it is.” It sounds like Eddie thinks the exact opposite of what he’s saying, is what it sounds like. Richie knows better than to poke at it, he really does, but he also absolutely can’t help himself where Eddie is concerned. “You can be honest with me, Eds. We’re brothers in arms, after all.” He ducks his head soberly.

“He just… didn’t really seem like your type, I guess.” Eddie says with a shrug, when he’s done rolling his eyes at Richie

Which -- colour Richie confused as hell right now, because how could Eddie possibly even know that? One, he clearly has no idea what Richie’s type is or he’d have realised that it’s _him_ by now, running to the hills or something. And two, he’s pretty sure Craig didn’t say one word to Eddie beyond a puzzled sound of surprise. Oh, and three, actually, because he could probably go on all day with this -- it was dark! It was so dark. Richie would be hugely impressed with Eddie’s impeccable eyesight if he was able to identify any of Craig’s features from that very brief encounter during which Eddie had covered his eyes for _a third of it._

“Why would you say that?” He prods; his turn to look at Eddie with something expectant in his eyes.

There’s something about it that makes Eddie panic. It’s not exactly the reaction that Richie is aiming for here, because Eddie’s a panicky enough person anyway, without having anything piled on top of that, and Richie isn’t actually a _dick_ \-- but Eddie’s going beet-red all the way to the tips of his ears, and it’s creeping along the back of his neck and the curve of his shoulders at an alarming rate. It’s gorgeous; it makes him look even more delectable, and Richie already thinks he’s the best person on the planet, so. That’s concerning.

“No reason.” Eddie’s response is swift; hasty as he picks the book back up and makes a show of opening it to the last page he’d read. 

“Nuh-uh. No. Absolutely not.” He rolls himself up onto his knees, positioning himself so that he blocks the sun; casting shade over the page and making it more difficult to read. “You can’t just say that and then not say _why_ you’re saying that.”

Eddie scowls. His fingers brush skittishly across the paper. “I don’t know, it’s just a hunch! Why are you pushing this? Why does it matter what I think, anyway? It doesn’t.”

And that -- Richie can feel the way his own face collapses in on itself, and he doesn’t have the time nor the ability to temper it. It’s like a switch; going from excitedly teasing, pushing all of Eddie’s buttons in a way that is intended to be playful into -- whatever this is now. His stomach swoops at the words, even if they aren’t intended to sound the way they do to him. He thinks that Eddie finds some truth in them though; from the vee that appears between his linear brows, to the way his fingers dig into the paper as though he can press holes through the book with the sheer force of whatever it is he’s experiencing right now.

“It does,” he finds himself saying. He’s not sure if he means to say it, really -- he knows that it’s the right thing to say, but Richie’s not so good at this part. “Of course it matters. You think I’d date someone my best friend disliked?” _You think I’d date at all_ , is closer to what he wants to say, but he tucks the tip of his tongue behind his teeth and prevents it.

“Yes.” Eddie is grinning as he says it, just a little. “I think you’d date someone I hate solely to spite me, actually.”

Richie scoffs, but thinks better of denying something so blatantly truthful, “Luckily I don’t need to go to such lengths. Even my presence is enough to annoy you, Eduardo.” He says it like he’s proud of it, puffing his chest out and waggling his brows excessively.

“That’s true.” There’s a lot of fondness in those brown eyes of his suddenly. 

Richie has to look away, covering the motion by using his hand to shade his eyes from the sun, perusing the volleyball game that’s going on a decent distance from them. He can’t see shit, but that doesn’t matter as long as it appears as though he’s watching.

“Anyway,” he continues conversationally. “Like I said. One time thing, so you don’t even have to pretend to like him.”

“Plenty more fish in the sea,” Eddie hums. The smile he pulls is his wiliest yet. “Or on the app, I guess.”

Well, that certainly grabs Richie’s attention right back. He’s gawking unattractively, he knows, when he turns to stare at Eddie through circular eyes and with eyebrows that run the risk of getting lost in his hair. “Eddie Kaspbrak, are you telling me you know about _Grindr_!?”

“Everyone knows about Grindr, Richie,” He’s patient with him, but that rose flush from early still hasn’t dissipated and appears to be coming back with a vengeance. “I didn’t live under a rock before I came here, you know.”

“Well, I never. You learn something new everyday.”

He narrowly manages to miss the book coming down heavily upon his head, grinning victoriously when the pages get crumpled under the force of them hitting the towel instead.

“Bill’s going to be very upset to hear about your mistreatment of his book.” He says it just to be contrary; because he wants to feel the weight of Eddie’s most withering expression fall upon him. He’s distinctly aware that he should not find it as attractive as he does -- it makes him feel sparks from head to toe. He’s having a totally normal experience; doesn’t feel like he’s been set alight at all. It’s fine.

They fall into an easy peace once again, Richie picking the habit of people watching back up, and Eddie valiantly trying to get through the (now fairly rumpled) book. He’s making a real effort of it, enough so that Richie feels a little bad that he doesn’t put as much work in when it comes to Bill’s literature, but -- well. They can’t both be excellent friends. Their wider circle of comrades would find themselves to be unreasonably spoiled and it could make them even more demanding than they already are. 

He sneaks a furtive glance out of the corner of his eye because he can never seem to help himself; rewarded for it with the image of Eddie sat up and curved over his crossed legs, fingertips pressed to his temple, tongue exiting his mouth every now and again to absently wet his lips. He looks lovably lost. Richie’s read the book; he gets it.

They stay there for another hour, before the temperature starts to rise with the afternoon, the sun quickly becoming Richie’s mortal enemy number one. It’s not ideal considering where he lives, and how much he teased Eddie for his complaints about the heat in the beginning -- but the heatwave has been ongoing for quite some time already, and he’s almost willing for colder days. A bit of rain would really go down a treat right about now. He blinks up at the clear azure sky doubtfully, like he can will some precipitation down from the heavens.

Shockingly, nothing happens.

When he turns back, Eddie has already rolled up his own towel with military precision and packed up his bag. He’s tugging a t-shirt down over his head, and it’s not until it’s actually on that Richie realises that it doesn’t even belong to Eddie. 

It’s his. 

It’s definitely his shirt; it looks about three sizes too big for him, for one. It should be comical, but instead it makes his brain short-circuit; like all the systems that should be working with one another to send messages through his body and to his mouth just decide to collapse in on themselves, and he’s left goggling Eddie for the entire world to see. Not for the first time today, he might add.

His body is always a traitor, but now he thinks his brain might be catching onto the hype too.

“What?” Eddie all but snipes at him, looking down at himself self-consciously.

“My shirt.” Richie replies stupidly. 

Eddie tosses him an expression that’s quite scathing. Then he takes another look at himself and instantly comes to the same conclusion, if the sound of his mouth snapping shut is anything to go by. It’s stamped with large bold letters and says ‘I got a Dig Bick.’, with the words ‘You read that wrong’ underneath in smaller, more understated letters.

“Oh, shit.” He’s already reaching for the hem like he’s going to take it back off and, as much as Richie loves seeing Eddie without his shirt off, he instinctively recognises that he doesn’t want this to happen.

“Don’t worry about it.” He says hurriedly, inwardly wincing at the way Eddie squints at him. “It’s fine, we’re only going to the car, I’m -- way too hot to wear a shirt right now anyway. Just leave it.”

Because what he absolutely cannot say is that he likes the way it hangs on Eddie’s decidedly smaller stature; the way it droops at the neckline, baring his collarbones and a teasing amount of tan skin; the way the length of it almost reaches the bottom of Eddie’s shorts (which are _short_ , by the way, but not that short), brushing the tops of his powerful thighs; the way the image comes together to settle something deeply warm homely in Richie’s stomach, somewhere under the curve of his ribcage.

That would be fucking _embarrassing_ , not to mention uninvited.

He licks his lips without a thought, chasing the tang of sea salt on his skin. He wonders wildly if Eddie would taste the same.

Eddie looks at him for a second, and Richie could swear that the blood is back to colouring the line of his cheekbones, but that could also be the sun, so he isn’t going to dwell on it. He says, “This is the stupidest fucking shirt you own,” and then he slides the straps of the backpack over his shoulders and strolls off into the direction of the car.

Richie watches him go with no subtlety but a whole lot of adoration. He takes a few moments to gather his belongings (and himself), reassuring himself that he is not, in fact, suffering from a heart attack, and this is just how he _feels_ when Eddie does these things that he has no idea that he’s doing and it’s fine! It’s beyond fine. It’s great, even.

He’s going to call Bev when he gets in. Or Mike. He’ll have to decide whether he wants honesty or kindness; both of which will probably make him cry anyway, because his friends are the best and they also objectively _suck_. 

*

It takes Eddie a few weeks to come to terms with the truth of his situation.

The realisation doesn’t hit him all at once like a ton of bricks, and he supposes he can be grateful for that. Having some time to acclimatise those new (but perhaps not _that new_ ) thoughts is better than the alternative, even if it takes him long enough to get his head around it. It’s a predicament that he would not have imagined finding himself in, because it is not something that he has ever let himself think about before. 

There was never any reason for him to think about it before. 

For years, Eddie had fooled himself into believing that he knew who he was, and that he was content with it. It’s the same sort of feeling that he had when he considered his marriage; his job; his life -- all of these changes that he has made, the knowledge with which he has now had the opportunity to look back on them and see them for what they truly were.

Now he has to see himself for who he truly is, and the concept is -- horrifying to him. At the same time this, weirdly enough, is not the most difficult thing. He thinks that he has faced threats far more dangerous and far more terrifying than this; he thinks that this isn’t really a threat at all, not if he refuses to let himself see it as one. And he does. He does refuse, because his mother is no longer alive to convince him that he is wrong if he doesn’t.

He’s gay.

Eddie Kaspbrak is gay.

He’s _always_ been gay.

To think it in so many words is sobering. It feels a little as though he’s on a carousel ride that’s spinning faster and faster on each turn, and he has no idea how to get off; no idea if he even has any hope of getting off at all. The carnival metaphor makes him feel even more nauseous when it brings with it images of the clown with rows and rows of teeth ready for the eating, and he has to squeeze his eyes tightly -- so tightly -- shaking his head back and forth until the image fades into something less threatening. Probably, he looks a little crazy like this; thankfully, he’s isolated in the comfort of his bedroom, laying flat on his back on the bed. When he opens his eyes, he stares straight up into the ceiling and lets his gaze rest there for a moment.

It’s oddly comforting. It reminds him that he is here, in this place where he feels safe, in this place that he calls home now.

(He does not think of the leper, he does not think of the leper, _he does not think of the leper_ ).

He thinks of the leper, gruesome and rotting with flesh hanging off it in globs of vermillion red and scorched black bleeding into one another, and he thinks about the words it speaks to him, and he lets himself understand it for what it always was. A macabre representation of the fears his mother drilled into him from such a young age; fears which are waiting to be expunged.

Remotely, he wonders whether he should be panicking; or panicking _more_ , at least. The thing is, he thinks he’s done his fair share of panicking. Maybe not over this specifically, but over so many things during the course of his life. If anything, _this_ is one of the things that would be most rational for him to be alarmed by, and that’s maybe why he isn’t. Primarily, though, he knows that it’s because he’s been thinking about this for weeks now, even if he hasn’t had the guts to put a word to it. It’s the slow, smooth course of this revelation that is stopping him from spiralling into the midst of a full blown panic attack and for that he is eternally grateful.

If he panics, he might have to seek help from Richie, and though Richie will never push him for answers, he will wonder what the problem is. Eddie doesn’t think he’s ready for the audible admittance of this right now.

He clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. Not tightly, but firmly. Enough to keep him anchored. He breathes in through his nose, exhales from his mouth, and he takes pride in the fact that he is keeping the anxiety at bay. Even though he believes himself to be _okay_ with this new found information, he isn’t willing to believe that he won’t find himself in a dark place with it before long -- he has a track record. He knows better than to let his confidence lull himself into a false sense of security, especially when that will only make it harder if he does drop in the future.

For now, he holds onto the fact that he is handling this far better than he would expect; far better than anyone would expect of him.

Or maybe not. 

He can’t read people’s minds. He doesn’t actually know what people think of him or how they feel about him -- he just assumes from the body language that he reads as best he can, from the things that they have said to him in the past. When Eddie thinks about this in particular, it brings up memories of Derry -- of being told how brave he was (is) by his friends, of being hailed as something courageous and lion-hearted when he had been discharged from the hospital beaten and bruised and sewn, but amazingly full of life, and he thinks maybe this is precisely the kind of strength that they _would_ expect from him.

He hasn’t been that nervous, tense, anxious boy grown into a man for a while now. Obviously traces of that still linger, and no anxiety disorder is going to evaporate overnight, though God knows he’s tried -- but he feels better. He does. He feels more equipped to handle the world, considering everything it has thrown at him over the years, and everything that he has dealt with in the past half a year alone.

So. He’s gay. And he thinks that it’s going to be okay? Tentatively, at least. 

His gut still twists and wrenches with a nerves like crossed wires all tangled within him, and his heart takes on the characteristics of that which might belong to a rabbit or to a hummingbird, and his palms are clammy with a cold sweat not unfamiliar to him -- but none of that has to mean that this won’t be okay. He has come to recognise that his body’s reactions are often not looking out for him, and relying upon them would have kept him in the iron-clad chains of his old life. It’s going against all of that that has brought him to where he is now, and he’s still grateful for it; still doesn’t regret it for a single second.

He doesn’t have to wonder how everyone will take it, because the only people that matter won’t care. This is something that he can know for certain -- and he’ll honestly take what he can get right now in the way of certainties, because one thing that his life has shown him so far, is that few things are ever unquestionable. Everything has an element of doubt to it -- even this. But at least here that element is so inconsequential that it barely even exists at all.

They didn’t care about Richie; they won’t care about him. It’s common sense, something that he knows well. Something that he can hold onto amongst the messy knots of his own thoughts right now. He’s already witnessed Richie go through this; already watched the reactions of their friends from the other side of it, how willingly and openly they accepted him for who he is -- like there should never have been any question, and Eddie knows there shouldn’t have been. The amount that they had been through together… not one of them would ever have let something so meaningless interfere with how much they mean to one another.

A strike of guilt hits him when he realises how he’s thinking this through. It’s natural to immediately think of Richie and how he had done it and what had happened, but he also feels as though it’s a little thoughtless of him, somehow. Like Richie was the test bunny showing him the way forward, going through all the difficult stuff so that he doesn’t have to, but -- that’s not it at all. For one, he hasn’t been sitting on this, wasn’t aware of it back in Derry when they had reunited, and certainly wasn’t acutely aware of it before then. He doesn’t mean to be insensitive in his thoughts, even where nobody else can bear witness to them; but it’s only logical for him to look back on what’s already happened to predict what could happen for him. He doesn’t think Richie will mind.

Richie.

God, he’s going to have to tell Richie first. That bit is obvious. In truth, there’s nobody else he’d _rather_ tell first, but the thought does still make him queasy all of a sudden. 

He uses his hands to find steady purchase on the mattress beneath him, pushing down with his weight to propel himself into a sitting position. It’s late; a starless night against a sky turning darkly blue, and he kneads the palms of his hands into his weary eyes. A hand reaches across to fumble with the switch of the lamp on the bedside table, taking a few attempts to get it on.

Well. If anything is going to keep him awake at night, he figures that this is as good a crisis as any. Not that he feels like he’s having a crisis, exactly... He’s already accepted that what he has said -- or at least thought -- is true, and that’s… that’s got to be one of the main steps, right? Fuck. He doesn’t know what the process is for something like this, but he’s glad he’s not in denial. Or that he’s not in denial any _longer_ , considering he probably has been for -- oh, about thirty years of his life at the very least.

Nothing like an extremely repressed childhood to keep someone so far in the closet that they don’t even realise it themselves.

A lot about his life is starting to make sense to him now. 

The fact that he could never love Myra the way that a man should love his wife -- they had their problems and so many issues, but Eddie has never seen her as a bad person, and he knows, objectively, that she isn’t unattractive. It sounds silly even to his own mind, but he’s always assumed that his libido was just -- barely present. That was the reason the two of them didn’t have sex and, when they did, it was never anything romantic or sensual, always feeling more of a chore; to both of them, he thinks. He doesn’t want to dwell on this, because it’s not something that’s remotely gratifying for him, but he feels better that he understands it now.

And then there were the many times he’d swept under the rug and vowed never to think about, of course.

He doesn’t think he’d ever looked at a man and thought him to be attractive until -- well, until recently -- but he also recognises that that’s likely to be part of a deeper seated issue; the repression amongst other things. He thinks back on a few occasions during which he’d found himself to be unexpectedly turned on, and there’s always something in common; the press of a larger man against his back in a queue, a strong arm brushing up against his and, awkwardly, a joke or two that had gone straight to his dick (he doesn’t want to think about this). He’d figured that that was just _him_ at the time; he very rarely felt turned on to any real extent, so the fact that his body just randomly did that at times? Totally reasonable.

It makes him want to press his face into his cushion with the embarrassment of the realisation of how naive he’s been throughout the entirety of his life. Instead, a mini bout of hysterical laughter is all but pulled from him; transient but startling in the quiet of the house, and he bites his lip to keep it in.

“Fuck,” he whispers into the silence. And then again, just because he can, “ _Fuck_.”

Over the past few months, his body has definitely been actively telling him that he has _something_ of a sex drive, at least. It’s still mortifying for him to think about, something new and unusual to him in a way that it shouldn’t be, but he’s forty one years old and he’ll be damned if he let himself act like a scolded school boy about this. It’s sex. It’s sex that he maybe wants to have with a man -- at some point in the future, definitely not any time soon, because even the thought has his feelings mixed up in a way that isn’t entirely pleasant. It’s not _un_ pleasant, either, but… one step at a time. That’s all he needs to take.

Now’s as good a time as any, he thinks, the early beginnings of a smile touching at his lips, apprehensive but there.

Even with that in mind, however, it takes him some time to actually remove himself from the bed. The clock reads quarter to midnight, so it’s not that late; late for him, but he doubts that Richie is actually in bed yet. He’ll be unlucky if Richie has even retired to his bedroom for the night and, sure enough, when Eddie leaves the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him, he can see the washed out golden illumination of the lamp in the office. The door is ajar, the light just trickling out into the hallway, like it’s trying it’s best to keep Richie’s late night endeavors a secret but failing miserably.

He pauses just outside the door in case Richie is on the phone -- it wouldn’t be the first time despite the hour. He also doesn’t tend to go barging into any private spaces now, blood still burning at the scene he’d stumbled across a few weeks ago. Bringing his fist up, he knocks on the wood twice, loud enough to be heard but not so loud as to create a huge disturbance.

There’s a shuffling sound and a curse, before he hears Richie’s voice telling him to “Come in?”, uncertainly. 

It’s fair. Eddie is never awake at this time of the night. Still, he snorts when he walks through the door, arching a brow, “Why did that sound like a question? Who did you think it was going to be?”

Richie, who has been staring at him guiltily, like he thinks that Eddie has come to berate him for staying up this late to work, visibly relaxes, making some vague gesture with his hand. “I don’t know. You could have been a ghost.”

“You’ve been talking to Bill too much. Or reading too many of his books you apparently hate so much.” Eddie observes mildly, finding humor in the offended expression that crosses Richie’s face with his words.

“You’ve fought an alien clown but ghosts are too far-fetched for you? Unbelievable.” 

“Yeah, the alien clown was kind of hard to dismiss when it shoved it’s fuckin’ claw through my arm... but I’ve never seen a ghost.”

“Yet. There’s still time.” Richie leans back in his chair, interlocking his fingers behind his head and stretching. The movement brings the hem of faded gray t-shirt up, revealing a slither of pale skin and rough hair, and Eddie forces his eyes away.

He looks tired, he thinks. There are lavender circles stretching under Richie’s eyes, veins creeping through the skin that has an almost translucent quality to it. It’s his own fault for staying up so late like this, working on this upcoming show day and night as though the extra hours will make that much of a difference -- but that doesn’t stop Eddie from feeling a rush of protectiveness towards him. When Richie gets like this, he wants nothing more than to bundle him away to bed and forcibly make him get some rest. It’s surprising the amount of times that he actually succeeds in doing that, considering Richie has inches and pounds on him; could easily resist if he wants to. Maybe he just doesn’t want to. Eddie’s not sure.

But he’s not here to do that tonight, anyway.

“How’s it coming along?” He nods his head towards the laptop, resting his body against the doorway in a move that feigns casual.

Richie exhales. “No, good, yeah… I think it’s going well. I’ve sent a draft of everything over to Steve and he seems to be on board with it, so…” He releases his hands, shuffling forward in the chair. “I think we’re gonna do it. After Atlanta. The, uh, the coming out show.”

There’s a lot to unpack there. Eddie’s sure his expression shifts through a multitude of emotions before settling on the one that’s best; the one that’s proud and pleased. “Wow, that’s -- that’s big. That’s great, Rich. Not long then.”

Not long at all. The trip to Atlanta is only a few weeks away, and it’s pretty much been the hot topic of conversation on the group chat for obvious reasons. It’s been planned for a while now, solidified only in recent weeks, and Eddie really can’t wait to see them all again, even if only for a short weekend that will be only too fleeting. It’s been too long since Derry; not ‘twenty seven years’ long, but he hopes that they won’t leave it this late again. 

The losers are all definitely aware of the divorce now, at least, so he’s not going to have to awkwardly drop that information at the dinner table. Of course, that just reminds him that he’s replacing that small secret with a much larger one, and he swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.

“Actually,” he says, pleasantly surprised to note that his voice sounds almost normal. “I wanted to talk to you about something. Would you come downstairs for a bit? I think… it might be easier.” Nothing about this will be easy, except for the fact that this is Richie, and Eddie trusts him implicitly.

The expression Richie eyes him with is pure wariness. “Yeah? Yeah, sure, of course, Eds. Let’s go now?”

Eddie nods, waiting for Richie to pull himself up and out of the chair, and then he takes the stairs two at a time, feeling the reassuring presence of the other behind him. He feels oddly lightweight in the moment; having to take extra care to make sure he doesn’t lose his footing and when they reach the kitchen, his heart is pounding erratically once more, like it’s reminding him that it’s there. It’s not a reminder he needs right now, not when it makes him feel so on edge.

He heads straight for the fridge, taking out two cans of beer and handing one to Richie, who accepts it with a touch of bewilderment. His own almost slips from his hand; condensation battling against damp palms, but he catches it with the tips of his fingers just in time. He can feel the density of the concern that Richie is wearing for him right now, and it makes him feel both anxious and comforted, somehow. It shows that Richie cares. It also shows that he knows that something is up, which -- well. Eddie supposes the way he’s gone about this -- the time, the wording… none of it is going to inspire any confidence in a person. 

Maybe he should have thought this through, but it’s not like there’s a fucking guidebook with procedures to follow for coming out. Actually, there probably is. Shit. He should have, like, Googled or something.

They take to the sofa, sitting on opposite ends of it with their beer cans open but untouched, wallowing in the unsteady silence for a moment, before Richie breaks it with a question.

“I don’t want to say you’re scaring me, but you’re kind of scaring me… what’s going on?” It comes out on a hiccup of a laugh; like he’s trying for light-hearted and completely missing the mark.

“I need a moment.” Eddie says too quickly and too bluntly. He’s thankful that Richie knows him well enough not to take offence to it.

He knows better than to let this fester. He knows who he is, and he knows that the longer he leaves it, the less likely he is to confess it at all. For once, Eddie knows that that isn’t what he wants to come from this. This isn’t something he thinks he can live with burying. He just has to be brave, which is amusing to him now, considering everyone has been telling him that he’s been brave all along, and he thinks that maybe they’ve been right all along, too. With every new thing, he tells himself he just needs to be brave for this one last occasion, and that will be it. The problem is, they keep on coming, all these little moments that enter his life and demand something of him. But he can’t deny the good that they have brought him, either.

“I’m --” He starts, before he cuts himself off with a strangled sound. 

Shit. This isn’t how he thought it would go; he didn’t think it would be _easy_ , to say those words aloud, but he hadn’t thought that he would feel this way, either. In the presence of the one person who will definitely not give him shit for this. At least not right now. Eddie’s already mentally preparing for the jokes that will come his way when Richie’s decided Eddie’s had enough time to come to terms with it; that he’s ready to hear them. 

Weirdly, it’s this thought that helps him to regain purchase on his strength. 

He looks at Richie determinedly, mouth slashing a thin line across his face, and he says, “I’m gay.”

Oh, fuck, that feels -- weird. Good, he thinks, but weird -- he’s definitely a bit lightheaded now. He wonders if this is how Richie felt when he did this; featherlight and only half present.

Richie drops his can of beer.

Eddie watches with eyes blown in horror as it crashes to the floor, thick, amber liquid spilling everywhere, and he makes a move as though he’s going to get down and reach for it, but Richie flings an arm out to stop him, quickly.

“Leave it.” He says, dazedly.

“But --” Eddie groans as he looks at the beer. He’s honestly a little glad of the distraction, even if it’s one that makes his skin crawl. They can’t just leave it. It’s so sticky. It’ll seep under the floorboards and ruin them and then they’ll have to have them all pulled up and replaced and it will be a nightmare. It’ll cost a fortune. Maybe Richie doesn’t think about things like that, but Eddie definitely does, and it’s all he can do to keep his eyes fixed on the spilt liquid right now.

“Leave it.” Richie repeats. It’s firmer this time, and Eddie has to look up at him again, finally, pulling his attention away from the mess they’ve made. He swallows at the expression on Richie’s face; he can’t place it. It looks almost tender, if he was pressured to label it. “Eddie.” Richie says. His throat works around the name. “Sweetheart.” He says, and Eddie can hardly bear it. “Thanks for telling me.” He says.

The air leaves him in a rush, a hundred breaths that he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding at bay, and he flops back into the soft cushions of the sofa. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” 

He can’t quite believe that he did.

“You did.” Richie is looking at him so damn fondly it physically aches. “And I’m so unbelievably proud of you. It feels disgusting. I don’t like it.” But he’s smiling like he can’t help it; no amount of flippancy hiding his real emotions about this.

Eddie doesn’t really know what to say next. What happens next, in these situations? It’s all a bit… he doesn’t want to say anticlimactic, but maybe that’s the right word for it. He feels exhausted, suddenly. “Thanks, Rich.”

Richie clears his throat. “So, uh, when did you -- was this like an overnight thing? Did you literally just… discover this now, or?”

“No, idiot.” Eddie frowns at him. “I didn’t just decide I was gay on a _whim_ , what do you take me for? It’s been weeks.” He pulls a face. “Years, if you count all that time I’ve spent in denial.” Unintentionally, but still. There were moments; flickers of something that never solidified in his mind until now. 

He figures Richie probably knows at least a little about all of that. 

There is absolutely no way that he’s going to tell Richie that he’s partly behind this sudden epiphany, because that would be -- humiliating. Awful. Not to mention _creepy_ . There are boundaries -- they live together, they’re best friends, he can’t even imagine how it would seem to Richie if he was just like, _oh, hey, by the way, you actually helped me to come to this conclusion by unintentionally turning me on the other day, so that’s something_! Yeah, no, that’s not happening. It’s, like, illicit on so many levels, and Eddie doesn’t want Richie to think he’s coming on to him or something because he’s the only gay guy he knows.

“I guess now it makes sense,” Richie says sagely, after a while. “That you know all about Grindr.”

Eddie throws a cushion at him. “Shut up. You know damn well I don’t have Grindr.”

“Yet.” Richie grins.

Which -- Eddie throws another cushion at him for good measure, hitting him square in his stupid face, and that feels better than having to confirm or deny the ‘yet’ comment. It’s not something he’s thought about up to now, obviously, and it makes all the blood rush to his face and to his ears, and it leaves him feeling incredibly nervous, but -- that could be a valid step to take, right? God. He doesn’t know. Baby steps, he remembers. Baby steps are good.

Richie seems to know precisely what he’s thinking, because he looks at Eddie for one long moment, before he says (awkward with it, gaze wandering), “Let me know if you want to, um. Explore that. I can help you set up the profile, weed out the strange men on the internet,” he grimaces. “There are a lot of those.”

“Yeah,” Eddie keeps a straight face. “You would know, being one of them.”

“Ouch, Eds gets off a good one!” Richie laughs like he can’t help it, gleeful as he always with when Eddie insults him (lovingly; with affection). It should be an oddity, but for them it’s not. “I have to say, I’m a little relieved. I thought you were going to tell me something bad then, break it to me gently...”

Eddie raises a brow at that. “Like what?”

“Like you’re finally setting fire to your fanny pack collection. They’ve grown on me.” Richie grins, but he’s sheepish with it in an instant. He pulls the cushion that just rebounded off his face into his lap, squeezing it between his large hands. “I thought maybe you were going to say you’d be moving out soon.”

“And what would be bad news?”

“The worst.”

It sounds like complete and utter honesty coming from Richie; it’s obviously not bigger than Eddie’s revelation, but it’s another thing in its entirety. He agrees with it, too. He’s been putting off finding somewhere else to stay, despite seeing it as something inevitable -- and it still is. Eventually, he’ll have to move out and move on, because Richie isn’t going to want to live with him forever. What Eddie sees and wants for Richie’s future is happiness; him finding love with someone for what might be the first time in his life (Eddie isn’t sure, but he can guess that Richie hasn’t been in love before. Or maybe he’s just projecting). Richie might not see that for himself, but Eddie does. He knows without a doubt in his mind that there are infinite people who would fall in love with Richie given half a chance.

So. He’s not going to be here forever. But he might be in LA forever, and that’s good enough for him.

“No plans to move out just yet,” he says with a soft smile touching at dry lips. He leans his head back against the sofa, tilting it so that he can face Richie still. “I’m here for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Be careful,” Richie says. It’s light, not at all strained, and yet Eddie can see something so visibly beneath the surface of it; still it’s out of reach to him, unnamed yet on the tip of his tongue. “You might regret saying that.”

Eddie hums. “I doubt it. It’s like having my own personal live-in chef; I’m not in any rush to give that up.”

He gets a retaliatory cushion in the face for that one. It does absolutely nothing to dampen his spirits or diminish his smile.

*

“No.” Richie laments when he alights the plane that’s taken them from LA to Atlanta, and is immediately slapped in the face by a wall of muggy heat.

God. 

Why is it so hot everywhere? He can’t take this anymore.

He needs to move to Scandinavia -- which would actually have many perks other than the weather, like the fact that the standard of living is so high, the low crime rates, the way everyone there is probably his height so he’ll look fairly normal for a change. But then he’d have to learn a new language, and that seems like it would be a lot of work. Beyond that, Richie isn’t convinced that his Trashmouth act will go down well out there; they’re probably far too classy and shit to enjoy his jokes for what they are (profoundly layered insights into the human psyche, if you ask Richie; dick jokes, if you ask Eddie).

Damn. No. He thinks he’s going to have to stick it out here in the sticks of America, even if the temperature is addling his brain. Is the entire continent experiencing some kind of heatwave? He’d been so convinced that Atlanta would be more manageable, but the humidity is proving to already be deeply oppressive.

Eddie lets loose a groan from beside him, sunglasses perched atop his nose, and a ridiculous mustard bucket hat on his head. It suits him, but everything suits him according to Richie, so that is nothing new.

“Hot.” Eddie says.

“Hot.” Richie agrees on a sigh.

The journey through the airport is slow-moving; every step feels to Richie as though he is battling against a treacle-like substance, sluggish in his movement with a lack of sleep and a prolonged exposure to the heat. Eddie is behaving like a cantankerous old man, bitterly complaining about everything and anything he possibly can; the lack of speed with which other people locate their luggage on the baggage carousel; the sweat circling dark patches beneath his armpits; the poor levels of cleanliness in the bathrooms. His incessant sniping has Richie fondly pulling him into his side, sneaking a hand around his shoulders and then up and into his hair, already heat-relaxed and now tousled even more thanks to Richie.

Eddie scowls at him, but he doesn’t say anything. He looks cute like this, a little sun-stupid and messy, and his grumpy attitude does absolutely nothing to dissuade Richie’s affection for him.

He appears to compose himself somewhat as they depart from the airport at least; jumping in a cab wielding the address of the Air B ‘n’ B they’ve booked for the weekend. It’s an expansive apartment not far from the city centre, with plenty of room enough for all of them -- minus Patty and Stan, who have the luxury of their own home to retire to at the end of the day. Ben and Eddie had decided on the place between them with some input from Mike, the rest of the gang more than content to let them get on with it; everyone had already apparently agreed that if they let Bill, Richie and Bev choose, they’d end up somewhere without running water and with scarcely a bed between them. Which Richie thinks is objectionable, truthfully, they aren’t _heathens_ , but the three of them didn’t actually want the burden of booking anywhere anyway, so.

They’re the first to arrive, which makes sense because Eddie had booked their flights, and he is nothing if not punctual. He’d been listing off reasons for a possible delay the entire time it had taken them to travel to the airport in LA in early morning congestion (which Richie had obviously blanked out for the most part, making the occasional interested sound whenever Eddie got a little quieter with his rant) but they’re here -- safe and sound and very much on time. Richie leans himself up against the wall as Eddie skims through his phone for the confirmation email from the host, watching his tongue poke out as he jabs his finger at the numbers on the key safe, and then they’re in.

The air-conditioning is the best thing Richie has felt in years, quite possibly. He deflates with the relief of it, skin prickling at the surface with the sudden shift in temperatures, and he throws himself onto the couch without even bothering to check the place out first. It’s very Air B ‘n’ B -- white, minimalist, roomy. Beyond that and having a bed, Richie doesn’t think he has to know anything else about it.

Eddie has other plans. He stands directly in Richie’s line of vision, folding his arms across his chest and staring him down. Richie looks back at him for a considerable amount of time before relenting, “What?”

He huffs impatiently. “Go and put your case in a room before you start getting comfortable.”

“But Eds,” Richie all but whines. “I just want to sit down. I don’t care what room I get. They’re all probably the same anyway.”

“Fine. I’ll go and pick one for us.”

“For ‘us?’”

“Yeah,” Eddie pauses where he’s halfway out the door, throwing Richie a look that says, distinctly, _duh_. “There’s three. I figured one for Bev and Ben, and then Mike and Bill can share, and then --”

“And then us.” Richie finishes. 

It makes sense. It’s also probably not the best idea in the world for so many reasons, but he can’t list any of them without having to admit to too much. “Of course, yeah. That seems like the right split?”

“Yeah.” Eddie says and that _duh_ look is back, like he thinks Richie is being deliberately obtuse or something. 

Still, the conversation seems to have satisfied him, because he goes bounding down the hallway. Richie can hear the sound of various doors being opened and closed; too many doors to just be the bedrooms. He’d bet anything that Eddie is looking in the bathrooms and the wardrobes and the cupboards, too, inspecting everything until he establishes which is the best room. It’s a little over the top, considering they’re going to be here for just two days, but he absolutely knows better than to call Eddie out on that. Plus, he figures that this’ll make him happy, and a happy Eddie is the best Eddie for all of them.

It takes him about ten minutes to complete his examination of their surroundings, and Richie looks at him expectantly when he returns to the lounge area. He definitely looks a little more settled now, at least.

“We’ve got the one at the far end of the hall.” He says decisively, nodding as though he’s happy with it. “I’ve put my suitcase in there so nobody else can claim it when they get here.”

“My hero.” Richie says exaggeratedly, holding his hands over his heart, clasped together like he’s a princess in a Disney movie. “I don’t know what I’d do with you.”

The glare he gets in response is one of Eddie’s best yet. Truly withering. Richie is in awe of him. “Fine. Be sarcastic, dickface. You’ll regret it later when I make you sleep on the couch.”

“Oh, the horror!” Richie gasps. He’s very much intentionally pushing Eddie’s buttons right now, but how can he not when Eddie is so instinctually reactive? It’s always been a wonder to behold. 

He doesn’t even regret it when Eddie steps on his toes with all his weight behind it; a saccharine smile on his face as he passes. 

God, Richie loves him. It’s not something that’s ever going to leave him, he knows, and although it leaves him empty and devastated at times, feeling like nothing more than a ruin in the wake of a storm that Eddie has no idea he has created… it’s can also be the best feeling in the world.

Love is a fickle bastard like that.

They find some a hoard of complimentary food stashed away in the cupboards, including some grapes kept cool in the fridge, and they both silently agree to snack on them before anyone else arrives. It quickly turns into a competition to see how many each of them can catch in their mouths, and they’re still doing this -- tossing grapes at one another with their jaws practically unhinged -- when the rest of them arrive, coincidentally together. 

Ben opens the door just as Richie overestimates the stretch he needs to make in order to catch the grape headed his way, crashing off the sofa and onto the floor. But the grape is definitely in his mouth, so he can count it as a win, chewing on the offending piece of fruit triumphantly. Eddie peers at him dubiously from his end of the sofa, before he’s devolving into a fit of laughter, and Richie cranes his neck against the floor to look to the open door. 

“Hey, guys.” He says to their upside down faces.

“Hi.” Ben smiles like it is completely ordinary to see Richie from this angle. He looks between the two of them. “Seems like you guys are settled in then.”

Richie drags himself back up onto the sofa, using the arm of it as leverage, and wincing at the crick in his neck. “Yes. Eddie’s already claimed a room, so you’ll have to fight him if you want that one. I wouldn’t recommend it. He might bite today.” He grins as Eddie makes a loud noise of complaint from beside him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Ben replies mildly, and then looks between them again, quizzical this time. “Are you two sharing?”

“Supposedly.” Eddie mutters, arms crossed and brows furrowed.

“I’m in the doghouse,” Richie explains to the rest of them with not an ounce of apology in his features. “He might make me sleep on the couch still.”

There’s a laugh from somewhere behind Ben, muted and definitely belonging to Mike, and then Bev is moving into the lounge. “Well, isn’t this all very domestic.” She states drily.

Richie could kill her.

Mostly, however, he wants to hug her.

“C’mere,” he gets up and does precisely that, folding her smaller frame into his, and it’s like a dam has broken. Instantaneously, they’re all moving towards one another in a jumble of limbs and greetings, embracing and touching like it’s nobody’s business, and it’s all delightfully homely.

There might be a few tears, but Richie is just thankful that he’s not the only one. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, to be suddenly so emotional at this age of his life, but these people bring it out of him whether he wants it or not. He hadn’t realised how long he’s missed them in the half a year it’s been, even with the constant updates in the group chat, and the video calls, and the catch ups all together they have at least one a week; he’s not going to let them get away with not meeting up for months at a time ever again. Derry has brought them back together, and he’ll milk it for all it’s worth, harassing them until they grow tired of him, because he finally has them _back_. This makeshift family is like nothing he’s had since he was a kid.

There’s something completely crazy about feeling so attached to people that you had unintentionally forgotten for the better part of your life, but he figures they can deal with it. They’ve come face to face with more than enough crazy by now to know how to handle it; in their little bubble which very few people in the world could ever penetrate or even hope to understand. If they didn’t have this -- have each other -- Richie isn’t sure any of them would have coped post-Derry quite as well as they have been.

With the reunion out of the way, the new arrivals take their guided tour of the apartment via Eddie, claiming the remaining two rooms, and then Bill is reading from the group chat and telling them that Stan and Patty are on the way.

It’s not quite right -- missing the completeness -- until Stan arrives, but from there, it’s everything that Richie has expected it would be.

Patricia Blum Uris is a force to be reckoned with and the only person in the world that Richie has ever seen bring the lights out in Stan’s eyes. They call each other _babylove_ , unironically and with such innocence that Richie thinks his heart would grow five sizes, if it wasn’t already at capacity right now. It’s wonderful; he’s absolutely going to file it away to use against Stan at any and all given opportunities, but he doesn’t quite dare to do that around Patty just yet. She’s vibrant and warm and kind-featured, but he has a feeling that she also stands for absolutely no shit. A teacher, he reminds himself; and one piercing look from her really can transport him back to Derry High.

He likes her instantly, though. They all do, from what he can gather; of course, they’ve all already ‘met’ virtually through the cameras on their gadgets, but this is entirely different, and Richie… Richie has always known that Stan had at least some happiness in his life where the others were struggling, but to see it in the flesh is all the more impactful. He would have to be blind not see the way that the two of them love each so purely and so unequivocally, and it makes him want for so much that he has denied himself in the past.

Being in tune with your emotions is _disgusting_. No wonder he’s been repressing this shit for years.

They end up cracking open a few bottles of wine despite the fact that the clock hasn’t hit five yet; they’re on vacation and they are, for the most part, semi-respectable adults. They have a restaurant booking in some Greek restaurant that Stan and Patty recommend, and their spirits are high as they all pile into an eight passenger cab. Richie’s a little tipsy, actually, his vision already blurring at the edges, but only enough to create a pleasant hum within him; he wasn’t always so good at getting to this stage, sidestepping it completely to go straight to blind drunk, but that was before. He doesn’t need that anymore.

It takes them a while to get seated and co-ordinated, all of them loud and excitable, but when they do, they slip into an easy familiarity, conversation flowing as though they have never been apart.

“I have this publishing event in a couple of months for my latest book,” Bill’s telling them, sitting beside Mike at the table. They share a secret smile which Richie doesn’t understand but doesn’t really care to, either. “You guys should come.”

Amongst the murmurs of agreement, Richie says, “Wait,” face curious when seven heads turn to him. “You’re telling me you actually found someone to publish that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bill shakes his head good-naturedly in the face of Richie’s obnoxious laughter, and the giggles from Bev across the table. “Good one, trashmouth. How’s the show writing coming along? Eddie’s mom called -- she wants everyone to know you’re lying about having a big dick.”

Richie howls, even as Eddie splutters out a “what the fuck, Bill?”, and Bev slaps a choking Ben on the back where he’s just taking a gulp of water at the most inopportune of moments.

“I don’t know why you two are still measuring your dicks like this, when Bev’s more successful than both of you.” Stan interjects blandly. He mutters a, “sorry, babylove” ( _babylove_!!!) to Patty thereafter, even though she just looks bemusedly entertained by the whole thing.

Bev shrugs smirking behind the rim of her glass because it’s true, and then Eddie nods towards Ben, “Yeah, and he’s _richer_ than both of you, so… what is it you’re competing for, again? The title of most Z-List celebrity of the group?” He sits back in his chair with pride reflected in his grin when it pulls some more raucous laughter from the table, and earns him a slap on the back from Mike.

“I run a very prosperous business.” Ben allows beneath a blush, which only deepens when Bev leans across to press a slightly drunken kiss to his cheek.

It’s _exactly_ like that first night in Derry. Except without, you know… the threat of their imminent demise looming overhead. Richie feels full with the potent glow of it.

The ordering of the food is messy and loud, with requests flying everywhere, because they can’t organise themselves to save their lives.

“Can we get a few more bottles of this?” from Stan, waving towards the wine already on the table, even though they’re supposed to be listing their _food_ requests, and not their drinks.

“He’ll have the sausage,” Bev surprises Richie with a devious little smile in his direction, and he snorts unexpectedly with it.

“Mike, are we getting an appetiser? Which one? You said you’d decide, it’s too much pressure!” A little squabbling between Bill and Mike that takes a while to figure out.

Eventually, they manage to get everything sorted, the waitress leaving looking a little frazzled, enough so that Richie makes a mental reminder to ensure they tip _well_ at the end of all of this. Anyone who has to deal with them is a saint in his eyes; and that’s just with Eddie’s list of questions about how the food is prepared and what allergens they have, and with the amount of time it takes Bill to actually decide upon something, let alone with the rest of the carnival too.

He orders the Souvlaki (no sausages in sight, thanks for that, Bev), and he’s already drooling by the time the food arrives. That could very well be a side effect of a dry mouth from the amount of wine he’s been steadily consuming; but he loves this, being able to eat out, especially surrounded by this company that he loves so dearly. As much as he loves cooking (and he does, truly), there’s something satisfying about eating out somewhere new, trying different things, and he and Eddie have been doing a lot of that since Eddie has moved in with him. Mostly, Richie has managed to drag Eddie along with him each and every time under the guise of him really wanting to go, when his intentions have always been more to get Eddie to try new things -- and it’s been working. Amazingly well, if he does say so himself; the list of allergens prattled off by him just now was not nearly as long as it had once been.

“Oh my god. I might be the first gay in heaven,” he says when he takes a first bite of the skewered meat, reveling in the juicy tenderness of it. He leans back in his chair, closing his eyes to savor the moment. When they open again, he looks straight to Eddie next to him, “You have to try this.”

Eddie eyes his plate wearily. He’s gone for a Gyro; safe but still out of the box for him, Richie knows, and he seems hesitant. “I don’t know…”

“Come on, it’s good! I promise,” Richie tilts his head to the side, tone a little pleading. “When have I ever let you down with food?”

“Never.” Eddie relents easily enough, even if he screws his nose up as he watches Richie carve a piece of meat off the skewer (he knows there’s no way Eddie is going to eat this straight from the skewer). “What is it?”

“Man meat.” Richie says sombrely, sniggering in the face of Eddie’s instant disgusted recoil. He’s quick to soothe him, “It’s just beef, I swear,” he promises, pushing the morsel onto his fork with the flat of the knife, and then raising it unthinkingly towards Eddie’s lips.

Seemingly just as unthinkingly, Eddie opens his mouth and accepts it, eyes meeting Richie’s as he closes his lips around the bite. He doesn’t hover on indecision; he just acts. There’s something instantly charged in the short distance between their gazes, sparking up behind eyes, and Richie feels his breath hitch in his throat. He watches as Eddie pulls back slowly, chewing on the meat, eyes not once leaving Richie’s as he does so. It feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind for a moment; like he can’t breathe. He savors the look on Eddie’s face as much as Eddie savors the bite; like they both need to remember this.

Eddie swallows. Richie tracks the movement of it. 

“It’s good.” Eddie says sotto voce.

Someone clears their throat.

It’s enough to shatter the moment. 

Richie looks away swiftly, noting the hue to Eddie’s cheeks as he does so; his gaze immediately getting swallowed up by that of Stan, sitting across from him at the table. Stan raises one brow almost imperceptibly and Richie just looks back, because what the hell is he supposed to do with that? If Stan wants to know whatever the fuck that was, then he can find out himself and tell Richie when he does, because Richie has no answers right now. He never has the answers where Eddie is concerned, especially not lately where it seems as though the lines are blurring; at least for him. Only for him. He’s not stupid enough to think that Eddie sees anything beyond friendship in whatever it is that lives between them. 

Even with what he knows now. _Especially_ with what he knows now, because it’s -- it’s so dangerous to think about. When he thinks about the fact that Eddie is gay, it wrenches something deep and aching inside him, something that hurts as much as it hungers, and he doesn’t fucking know what to do with any of this. Knowing Eddie isn’t straight doesn’t make any of this easier, somehow, though he thinks it should. It doesn’t. It just allows hope to blossom where it shouldn’t, because the pain of its death will be surely too much for him to handle.

He glances surreptitiously around the table, releasing a quiet breath of relief when he’s able to confirm that nobody else seems to have noticed the strangely clandestine moment between himself and Eddie; all of them lost in their own conversations, laughter ringing out from all sides that sounds distant to his ears.

It takes him a moment to shake the moment from his mind, and even then he can’t quite manage it. He throws himself into the various conversations throughout the course of the meal, scarcely resisting the urge to sneak furtive glances at Eddie from the corner of his eyes, because he’s not sure that he’ll like what he sees; it takes a lot of effort. Sometimes, he considers letting the truth slip from his lips; falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness. But he won’t. He never will. This is something he will take to the grave with him; something that everyone will know except for the one person that matters. He’s acquired skills of self-preservation over the years, and even if he’s willing to slacken his grasp on some of these now, this one will always remain.

The rest of the night is uneventful. They stay until closing, ordering more and more drinks and becoming increasingly more intoxicated, the last group of diners to remain in the restaurant. They leave a tip which Richie thinks more than makes up for it (he remembers how much he hated those who stayed til closing, back when he’d had a brief stint as a busboy back in college. Brief because he’d dropped a few too many plates and made a few too many back chatting comments to customers). Their goodbyes are said to Stan and Patty outside the restaurant, agreeing on a time to meet up the following day -- well, Eddie and Ben agree on the time, like the appointed leaders of the group that they’ve somehow become, and Richie figures that one of them (probably Eddie) will wake him up in the morning anyway. He’s reliable like that.

Stan lingers behind as the group begins to move along the sidewalk, and Richie’s mouth feels dry with it; but he leaves without saying anything. Nothing more than one, last considering look in Richie’s direction that he doesn’t understand, and then the rest of them are piling into their own cab back to the apartment anyway, so he doesn’t get to ask. Not that he would have. He doesn’t tend to ask questions that he doesn’t think he really wants to know the answer to.

Getting to sleep in the room he shares with Eddie is an uncomfortable affair with little words spoken between them; but by morning it’s as though everything is back to normal. He wakes up to Eddie hovering over him with a glass of water, brow creased.

“Wha’? What time is it?” He groans. His eyes are squinting against the light streaming in through the window, but they focus on the water. “Wait, were you going to throw that over me or something, what the hell --”

“No!” Eddie denies. Richie doesn’t entirely trust him on this, but he also doesn’t have time to question it further. “Jesus. Just drink the water and get up. We’re heading out in about an hour.”

Right. Exploring the city, or something. 

He groans again as Eddie leaves the room, rolling over to bury his head into his pillow for a few moments. He knows he does actually need to get up and start getting ready before Eddie comes back to find him unmoved and underdressed and completely chews him out for it, so he only lets him wallow in self-pity about the vague thundering in his head for a little while. He showers, gets dressed into a navy shirt with sunflowers all over it (which is arguably more stylish than most of the shirts in his wardrobe, so nobody can complain that much) and makes his way into the open plan kitchen and lounge area. Everyone seems to be accounted for, save for Bill, and Stan and Patty who they’ll meet in the city.

“Where’s B-B-Big Bill?” He queries as he pours himself an unhealthy amount of coffee, freshly brewed by the looks of it. It will do nothing for his headache, but it might make him feel a little more alive. The benefits outweigh the cons, as far as he can see.

“Sleeping.” Mike offers. He’s flicking through the television channels, craning his head backwards on the couch and raising one hand in a lazy wave. “He’s not really a morning person.”

Which is decidedly unfair. Richie turns to look at Eddie accusingly. “Oh, isn’t he? And we’re letting him sleep? That’s nice of us.”

Eddie at least has the grace to look a little sheepish, but he just shrugs and whispers, “Mike won’t let us wake him yet.”

Since when has _Mike_ been able to stop Eddie from doing something he wants to do? Honestly, Richie’s not convinced that he hasn’t woken up in the twilight zone right now. He chugs down the coffee despite the fact that it’s still hot and burns his mouth, pouring himself another glass instantaneously. He looks at Eddie goadingly as he does it, eagerly watching the muscle that ticks in his jaw. To Eddie’s credit, however, he doesn’t say anything about the liquid breakfast. Richie is almost disappointed.

At least Bev looks about as good as he feels. He actually can’t see her face right now, but she’s face down on the table, red hair billowing over her folded arms, so he’s going to assume it’s safe to say that she isn’t ecstatic about this early morning either. He reaches out to pat her arm gingerly, but she just sighs deeply in response.

Ben looks up at him from his phone apologetically. “How’re you feeling, Richie?”

“Like there’s a thousand little drummers in my head, all playing a different tune and doing an Irish jig at the same time.” He raises his mug cheerfully. “What’s the actual plan for today?”

“Stan said something about a garden.” Eddie offers. “There’s a few historic sites too.”

That is precisely what they do. Mike eventually gives in to allowing them to wake Bill up after another twenty minutes of waiting, and they’re only narrowly late to meeting Stan and Patty, neither of whom seem that put out (Stan because he expects it, probably, and Patty because she seems fairly relaxed -- which would make sense, considering she hadn’t freaked out and taken Stan to the mental hospital when he’d unloaded his childhood trauma with the clown onto her; Richie is reminded, yet again, that Stan has found an actual, real keeper). 

It’s a good day. Richie is willing to admit that this is because of the company, rather than what they’re actually doing, but the little tour of Atlanta’s attractions that Stan and Patty have put together isn’t too shabby either. Mostly, he just enjoys spending time with the lot of them; he and Bill bicker more than is strictly necessary, endearment filtering through each of the jabs and jibes they take at one another. He spends time delighting in the flat, dry wit that has never left Stan; even more so when he makes jokes that none of them understand, but Richie always laughs anyway, just like he had when they were kids. He watches how Bev and Ben navigate towards one another when they’ve been apart for too long, like magnets being pulled together, and he thinks it won’t be long before Bev sells her apartment and makes the move they’ve all been waiting for with bated breath. It’s been over six months now, he thinks; she doesn’t need anyone’s approval to do whatever the fuck she wants to do, not anymore, but she has it ten times over if she ever looks for it.

He’s careful to spend time with Mike, who he knows still carries the guilt of calling them all back to Derry with him; despite them all making the same vow, all promising to do only what he’d asked of them. Richie can’t imagine how he would be feeling if they hadn’t all made it out alive, but they had -- he can see that it’s still a burden for Mike somehow, but he looks so much better than the last time they saw one another. The open road and the freedom from Derry has done wonders for him, making him seem ten years younger in the span of just a few months.

There’s a few times throughout the day where Richie has to catch himself. Like all at once he can’t quite believe that they’re here, together, and that they’ve done what they’d always said they’d do; the clown is dead and buried never to return again, and not one of them had to make the ultimate sacrifice for it, and it’s… a hell of a lot to think about. He feels stupid with it, getting choked up at the most inopportune of moments; when he catches sight of one of the losers out of the corner of his eyes and realises how fucking pleased he is that they have this. For the first time in years, he has something to be grateful for that isn’t just his shitty career and a steady inflow of cash to keep him going; something that matters.

They’ve grown together; all of their roots buried so deeply, wizened and entangled over the years, so much so now that he does not think there is a force strong enough on this earth to unravel them. At the end of the day, they’ll make their home in one another, even if there are miles and oceans between them.

Something kind of fuckin’ beautiful came out of Derry after all, huh?

He’s not going to cry about it. There’s been enough of that already in these months (and yesterday alone), and he absolutely does not need to be papped on the streets of Atlanta with snot running out of his nose and eyes puffy from tears, jesus.

It’s _nice_ , is all. He’s allowed to have this, fuck it.

They have one more night together, so they reconvene back at the Air B ‘n’ B with Stan and Patty in tow, and the prospect of a lot of alcohol to consume. There’s a fairly impressive collection of board games stashed away in one of the drawers, and a brief argument ensues over whether or not they should play Trivial Pursuit or Monopoly -- Bill pointing out that the latter can truly break up families, which ends up being the decision maker. 

After, Bill will admit that Trivial Pursuit can also break up families.

But it’s fun, even with the squabbling. Richie slides easily into first place, his head filled with a lot of trivia picked up over the years, and he slips outside onto the balcony whilst Mike and Stan battle it out for second. 

His fingers itch to reach for the cigarettes he hasn’t touched in months, for some reason; an urge he hasn’t experienced in a while, and it has him gripping onto the railing of the balcony, stretching his arms out as he overlooks the bright lights of the cityscape stretching out before him. The voices from inside are muffled out here, and he can’t pick up much of what is being said, but he can hear the high tones of Eddie’s voice when he’s agitated, and it’s enough to have him smiling quietly to himself.

Or not to himself.

He catches movement, the door being slid open, and he’s surprised to find Patty joining him out here. She’s probably the last person he would have expected, but Richie nods his head in acknowledgement anyway, wondering if he should leave, if she needs a moment to herself -- he would get it, if she does. It must be pretty intense to go from living a normal life to being thrown into this mess. Even if the worst is way behind them now, he expects that it’s something that takes a lot of adjusting to. The fact that she didn’t run for the hills at the first mention of a _demon clown_ speaks volumes for her character in Richie’s mind, so he’s more than happy to include her in their little gang; he can’t think of a single person he knows back in LA who would have dealt with this well at all.

God, he’d still be in rehab _now_ if he’d told Steve about any of this shit six months ago.

“Are the kids fighting?” he asks, knowing full well that _he_ is one of the so-called ‘kids’, if any of them are.

She smiles knowingly. “I have a feeling they always are. But they also love each other, too.”

Which… Richie feels a little like he’s being psychoanalysed right now, but also he can’t deny what she’s saying, because they do all have a lot of love for one another. Obviously. Any one of them could have said ‘thanks but no thanks’ when they’d picked up the call from Mike, but they hadn’t. That has to count for something.

“Welcome to the circus.” He snorts instead of saying anything incriminating.

She smiles the same smile and says, “I didn’t know what to expect when Stanley told me about all of this.” Like it’s a confession that she’s unsure of; Richie feels an almighty rush of warmth towards her for it. “But you all seem… so settled.”

And that -- that makes Richie laugh. A bout of surprised snickering that has his fingers instinctively curling tighter around the railing he’s still holding onto. Jesus. He thinks they’re probably the least settled bunch of forty-somethings he’s ever come across in his life, but it’s a relief to know they aren’t that obvious about it. 

“Sorry,” he manages through hiccuping breaths. “You don’t know many well-adjusted people, I take it?”

“I think you’re remarkably well-adjusted, all things considered. It’s good that you all have each other.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“It’s interesting,” she continues, with a sudden wicked gleam in her eyes. It’s gone as quick as a flash, leaving Richie blinking. “Everyone seems to come in pairs.”

He thinks about that and realises that it’s true. As concrete and bonded as they are together, there are pockets of separated relationships between them; Bev and Ben are obvious enough, and Stan has Patty now. Mike and Bill… Richie won’t even pretend to act like he knows what’s going on there, but they sure seem closer than he remembers.

And then there’s him and Eddie.

The thought has the laughter dying within him, looking back out at the view of the city. He feels more than he sees Patty do the same; the angle of her body shifting as she looks straight out over the horizon.

It’s what he’s always wanted, isn’t it? Him and Eddie to be him and Eddie. R and E, just like he carved on the Kissing Bridge as a shifty, scared shitless teenager. He went back in the days after they left the sewers; when Eddie was still recovering in the hospital. He’d gone back to recarve it. Still remembers how he had felt when he had discovered it to be there despite the years that had passed -- fainter than before, but visible amongst the aging wood of the bridge. The brush of his fingers over the engraved letters had been almost reverent. 

Only he knows about this.

“Yeah,” he says, bitter and hoarse. “Looks like it.”

Patty says, “I don’t mean to intrude,” with the air of someone who definitely means to intrude. “Stan said there was nothing going on between you, but it doesn’t seem that way to me.”

Richie ducks his head; swallows as though it can unlodge the unexpected knot in his throat. “I try not to side with Stan usually,” he quips. “But he’s right on this one, as disappointed as I’m sure you are…” Like it’s all a big joke.

He feels her eyes on him.

“I think you should talk to Eddie one of these days. Maybe you’ll be surprised.”

“Yeah,” he says agreeably; like he’s actually considering it. He’s not. He shrugs insincerely. “Maybe.”

It’s a kick in the teeth that he’s still this obvious -- obvious enough that a practical stranger can feel the yearning coming off of him in waves. But six months of living with Eddie was always going to make that longing worse, wasn’t it? And now, on top of that -- this new knowledge that he carries with him every single day that Eddie is _gay_ and he still doesn’t, can’t, won’t see Richie like that. Which is -- it’s fine. He doesn’t owe him fucking anything just because he’s attracted to men too, but fuck if that doesn’t hurt more; knowing that it’s not the fact that he’s a man, but it’s the fact that he’s _him_. 

A part of him -- a ridiculously naive, embarrassingly hopeful part of him -- had thought that maybe -- just maybe -- there’d been something more to it, when Eddie had come out to him.

God, he’d been so fucking stupid.

He breathes out shakily, unexpectedly, and squeezes his lids shut, sweeping his glasses off in one clumsy movement so that he can press the sudden grief from his eyes, digits unsteady with it.

The arm that folds around his shoulders is slender but firm, and he lets Patty give him the comfort he needs but can never seem to ask for outright, torso half contorted over the railing like he’s been gutted, metal digging painfully into flesh, a stinging behind his eyes that he doesn’t want to give into. 

Later, he can’t be sure how long they stay like this for, undisturbed by the others, but it feels like it could be somewhere between a matter of seconds and an entire lifetime.

*

Richie is dancing around the kitchen, singing along to Tina Turner at the top of his voice, and Eddie isn’t quite sure yet whether he wants to laugh or cry.

Laugh, he thinks, as Richie very nearly slides knees-first into the oven, just missing the glass door by a breath, hands coming out to brace himself against the kitchen counter before he can officially break the appliance.

It shouldn’t be funny. It’s reckless, and if Eddie had had to take Richie to the emergency room tonight with chunks of glass sticking out of his knees, neither of them would have been very happy at all. But he misses, so it’s okay to laugh; especially when he just jumps straight back up off the kitchen tiles again, using the carrot in his hand as a faux microphone, and thrusting his hips exaggeratedly. It looks like quite the feat for a man of his stature; it also looks incredibly awkward. Eddie groans around his chuckles, clapping a hand across his eyes for a second like he can’t bear to watch.

He sneaks a few glimpses through the gaps between his fingers, before giving up the farce altogether and letting his hand fall back down to the countertop.

Things have been going well since Atlanta. Richie is close to getting a date booked for his show (which all the losers have agreed to fly out for, front row tickets and everything), and Eddie has a job; or something akin to a job. Something that he’s wanted. He finally bit the bullet and applied for the apprenticeship at a local garage, despite feeling like an idiot at the time. It had paid off -- he’d gotten the job within an hour of leaving the interview, and now he comes home streaked with oil and grease instead of smelling like copious amounts of coffee, and it’s an upgrade, as far as he’s concerned. He thinks Richie agrees too. He’s happier with it. So much more relaxed. He doesn’t even care that it’s a dirty job, because LA is full of incredible cars that need servicing, and even if he’s not quite there yet, he gets to admire them all on a daily basis.

It still scares him sometimes that he’s doing these things -- but then he reminds himself how great life has been to him over the last half a year, and he recognises that sometimes the scary things are the _right_ things. It’s taken him an awful long time to get there, but he’s glad that he’s done it now; forty is better than fifty, and anything is better than nothing.

He watches as Richie zooms around the kitchen like a kid on a sugar rush, still singing along to the radio with all the vigor of someone who is actually performing on a stage, eyes literally closed as he croons into the carrot. He looks entirely lost in the moment -- until his eyes are open and he’s looking straight at Eddie with a delighted grin, and Eddie can’t even pretend that he’s not enjoying it. He is immensely. It’s _fun_ and _cringey_ and he could sit here and watch Richie do this all night (which he doesn’t voice, because that would only give Richie fuel to actually do this all night).

“Sing it with me, Eds!” Richie cries, shoving the carrot towards Eddie’s mouth.

Eddie, naturally, just stares at him flatly.

“Never mind. There can only be one diva in this friendship anyway.”

“I wasn’t aware we were competing for the title, but I’ll let you have it, Rich.”

“What competition? I’ve been winning this entire time!”

They keep sharing entertained glances, making snipes at one another, and Eddie almost does want to get up and dance. He doesn’t, but he thinks if there’s another opportunity, he might.

Eventually, Richie stops long enough to pay attention to whatever it is he’s cooking up tonight. The kitchen is bathed in resplendent light and, for a moment, with Richie standing directly beneath it, it almost looks as though he’s glowing radiantly; like the light is coming directly from within him. His hair is messy and there’s a smudge on the left lens of his glasses that Eddie can see from all halfway across the room; his shirt is open, a ratty band tee displayed beneath it, and the sleeves are bunched up around his elbows. Beneath the light fixtures, his head gleams with a sheen of sweat as he bends over the stove towards the pan, the heat rising and steaming his glasses even further; his pants are hanging low on his hips, revealing a thin strip of skin, and Eddie can’t help but fixate on that almost blindly.

Richie turns and says something -- a throwaway comment that gets lost in the sudden rush in Eddie’s ears -- still glued to the stove; the wooden spoon in his hand dripping sauce onto the floor.

It’s stunningly sudden, but quiet; like lightning without the thunder.

Eddie looks at Richie and he thinks _Oh_ , and then he thinks, _I love him_.

The aftermath of that thought isn’t half so soft as the revelation of it. His jaw loosens, eyes suddenly fixated and circular, as though they aren’t wide enough as it is, and he blinks at Richie’s back; feeling just like he’s been sucker punched in the gut. It’s something he has, unfortunately, experienced before -- but not in this context. Not in an emotional sense. Dimly, he thinks that someone might have taken all the air from the room. There are spots dotting across his vision instantaneously, his head light and pillowy with it.

He slips down from the kitchen stool, the sensation of his soles hitting the ground doing something to keep him anchored at least. Then, he leaves the room quietly, without making a fuss, though he fears his heart is so loud that it may give him away anyway, like any second now Richie will turn to him and ask what the sound is.

He does the first thing he can think of. He takes the stairs two at a time, skipping up them with abandon, just barely holding onto the railing as he goes, and he locks himself in his room. In the same breath, his phone is out of his pocket and held in shaky fingers, and he calls Stan.

“Please pick up.” His voice sounds harshly loud in the quiet. He bites his tongue after he says it, listening to the call ring out, each new toll strangely disheartening.

But Stan picks up. Of course he does.

“Eddie?” He sounds surprised; like he’s done a double take and still can’t quite work out if it really is Eddie on the other end of the phone.

“Yeah, it’s me, hi.” His voice leaves him hoarsely; cracking somewhere in the middle.

“Eddie?” Stan says again, a touch of urgency to his tone now. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? _What’s wrong_?

Everything.

Maybe nothing.

“I don’t know,” he says instead of voicing either of those.

There’s a beat of silence that’s loaded with doubt, and then, “Did you want something? You called me. I don’t think you just wanted to hear my voice, for some reason.”

“Can’t I want to hear your voice?”

“No.” Stan replies mildly. “I don’t think you can.”

“Okay.” Eddie relents with a half hearted chuckle. It only lasts a few second, because he feels like everything about this is so far from _funny_. He might actually throw up. He perches himself on the edge of his neatly made bed to stop himself from pacing. “I’m gay.”

Stan doesn’t pause for too long, and Eddie has to wonder if he somehow knows. But that would be impossible. “Okay.” He says, like Eddie has just him that the weather is wonderful in LA, thanks for asking. Eddie can practically _hear_ him thinking, before he says, “Have you told Richie?”

The query irritates him for some reason he can’t explain. “Yes, Stan, obviously I’ve told Richie! What do you take me for, bird boy? I told him before Atlanta.”

It’s this which surprises Stan the most, apparently. There’s a sharp intake of breath on the line; it makes Eddie’s brows slant ferociously, his lip twisted. He doesn’t think that it has anything to do with his sudden outburst or the drop of a nickname Stan probably has not heard since childhood.

“What? What was that?”

“Nothing. I’m -- just surprised.” Stan says carefully as though he’s measuring the words out before he says them. 

Eddie doesn’t know what to say to that. He decides to say nothing at all, allowing Stan to find the words to fill the stillness.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“That’s… okay.”

Another pause.

Stan prompts, “Was there something else?”

Eddie gulps. There’s always been something about Stan. He knew them all then and he knows them all now, maybe even better than any of them know themselves. Eddie remembers feeling all too seen under the weighty gaze of his back when they were kids getting themselves into something far too enormous for them to handle; this feels a little like that did. Like when he’d catch Stan looking at him and Richie in the clubhouse. It used to confuse him back then, because he didn’t get it -- he didn’t _know_. How could it have been so obvious what he was feeling, to everyone but him?

But that’s also partly why he’s called him in the first place. If there’s anyone he’ll spill his secrets to, it’s Stan. He thinks that it’s the same for all of them. Stan’s always had a knack for getting people to talk, and he’s not been loose-lipped with all that he learns, not as long as Eddie’s known him.

“Maybe,” he whispers, his heartbeat erratic and dangerously quick. “I’m scared.”

There’s movement on the line, and it sounds like Stan is sitting down. “You don’t have to be scared, Eddie, not anymore.”

He’s right. What do any of them have to fear now? Still, his body’s reaction is one of fight or flight, and he knows which is the choice that he has made only too often over the years.

Something rustles on the line. Static, maybe.

“I think --,” he cuts himself off; inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth. “Richie…”

The rustling stops.

“Richie?” Stan asks it like it’s a question, the last syllable lilting.

Eddie nods, and then remembers how useless that is. “Yes.”

“Eddie,” Stan’s voice is soft. “You’re going to have to use your words. Full sentences, okay?” It should be patronising, but it isn’t, somehow, because it’s Stan, and because Eddie knows he can trust him; that he just wants to _help_. 

Eddie’s not sure he can be helped.

He closes his eyes. “I think -- Richie and --.” He stops. Tries again. “I think I might…” He can’t. The words jam in his throat; making it harder for him to breathe. He feels for all the world like there is an external force crushing his windpipe, and he drops his head between his parted knees, phone still clinging tightly to his ear.

Stan is talking to him. “Hey, Eddie, don’t panic, okay? Come on. Breathe with me, can you do that for me? Like this --” He inhales and exhales through the phone, slowly and loudly, and Eddie finds himself mimicking the motion as though on autopilot. “That’s it, come on, stay with me. You’re doing well, buddy.”

It takes all of ten minutes for Stan to talk Eddie down long enough for Eddie to stop feeling like the room is spinning. He slides off the bed and onto the floor, pressing his back up against the edge of the mattress.

“Are you okay?” Stan asks after a while.

“Yeah,” Eddie swallows, rubbing a hand across his face. “Sorry, I didn’t -- that hasn’t happened for a while, I didn’t expect--”

“It’s fine. As long as you’re okay.”

“Yeah, no. I’m -- I am now.”

“Okay… you should talk to Richie.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. “What?”

He can hear Stan sigh. It sounds tired but tolerant. “Eddie. Just talk to him, okay? Promise me you will.”

He doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to make any promises he isn’t sure he can keep. His body deflates with his own sigh, and he balances his forehead against the hard bone of his knees. “Okay.” He says, and it sounds like an oath.

“Good.” Stan is -- relieved? That can’t be right. Eddie isn’t sure what Stan’s thinking or feeling right now. He could never quite get a read on him, and he isn’t going to start trying now. “Do you want to stay on the phone? We don’t have to talk… we can just keep the line open. Patty and I are watching Hannibal. It’s funny. You can stay on the phone if you want.”

That’s -- “What?” Eddie says automatically, raising his head just to shoot a confused expression at the blank wall opposite, like it will have the answers. “I don’t think that show is supposed to be funny.” He knows that that is not the part of what Stan has just said that he is intended to focus on, but whatever.

“Oh.” Stan sounds inattentive at best. “Well, anyway, the offer stands, if it’ll help.”

Eddie blinks. “No, that’s fine. I think I’m good now.” It sounds feeble even to him. He’s very far from fucking good. But at least he isn’t suffering a panic attack still. “We’ll talk soon?”

They hang up the call. He stares at the screen as the seconds tick by, unsure as to whether that conversation had helped at all, really. He still feels -- shell shocked. Lost at sea. What the hell is he supposed to do with this -- this _emotion_? He didn’t ask for this. It makes him want to panic again, but fuck, his body is already exhausted from that little scene on the phone with Stan, and he doesn’t think he even has it in him to spiral again right now.

He goes to the bathroom and splashes his face with cold water, and he returns back to the kitchen like nothing has happened, before Richie can get it in his head to look for him. Richie greets him with a raised brow but no vocal questions, and Eddie offers him a tentative smile in return for it; like a reward, though Richie probably has no idea that he’s even doing the right thing. Dinner is pad thai and delicious, and Eddie tries to get out of his own head long enough to enjoy it; to give Richie the kind of attention he deserves after making this meal for them, but it’s not something he can keep up all night. 

He excuses himself after they eat, feigning a headache, but it’ll be hours until he actually _sleeps_ ; his thoughts swarming and circling and refusing to settle, even though his body gnaws for the relief of sleep.

The next few days pass Eddie by in a blur, hemorrhaging into something that feels arduously endless. All he can think about is Richie, and it’s -- it’s taking over his life. He’s always admired Richie, he knows; even back when they were kids, he’d have done anything to be the one that Richie was looking at and speaking to, but -- he’s never thought it was anything more than that until now, and now the idea has wormed its’ way into his head, it’s like he can’t stop. Richie becomes the first thought when he wakes; the last before he falls into deep slumbers that aren’t dreamless but may as well be, for the little he can remember by the time he’s roused.

He contemplates Richie without even realising he’s doing it. Resists urges to do the most bizarre things -- like graze his knuckles across the cutting edge of Richie’s jaw; tangle his fingers in his hair; press his lips to the indents in his knees. He steps close enough to judge Richie’s girth against his own, shivers at the thought of what that would feel like if they were actually skin to skin, or even through clothes, just the size of him, and he knows that he _wants_ ; desires something that he hasn’t in so long.

It’s not all physical, because of course it isn’t.

There are so many other thoughts circling his head. The cadence of Richie’s voice in the morning, raspy and guttural. The way sleep makes him look rumpled at the edges and pliant like melted butter. The tip of his tongue caught between his overbite whenever he’s just thought of something funny; something that would make good material for a show. The way he does so much for Eddie -- as though opening up his home to him for all this time isn’t enough. He touches his waist as an afterthought when they pass one another at any given time; checks in with him with the brightness of his eyes throughout the day, never having to ask but sometimes doing exactly that; always knows the right thing to say and how to judge Eddie’s moods without sending him deeper into one.

He _knows_ him. Eddie’s never been known like this before, not even during his marriage. When Richie looks at him, he thinks that he might see right into his soul, and that’s a fucking scary thought, because he doesn’t know what his soul looks like after all this time. He doesn’t think it’ll be as pretty as it should be; marred with evidence of misuse over the years.

If Richie can see it, he doesn’t seem to care.

Stan’s words revolve around his head continuously. Eddie hadn’t even gotten what he had meant to say out, but somehow he thinks that Stan got it anyway. Talk to Richie, he’d said, as though it was going to be that simple. 

It’s never going to be that simple.

And yet… Eddie can’t stop thinking about that seemingly useless conversation with Stan. It’s Stan who always seems to have the information; who holds all the cards before any of the rest of them can even get to the table. Something about that ignites a fierce sense of courage within him, like he might actually do it -- might actually just talk to Richie, say that which he couldn’t say to Stan. Confess it all so that it’s out there, at least, because he feels as though it may eat him alive from the inside if he doesn’t; this secret already ripping at his seams and it’s been less than a week, oh God, how can he last the rest of his lifetime? It’s not possible.

In the end, it takes him two weeks. Two long, painful weeks of wanting and worrying and doing so little else. He doesn’t even know what happens during those two weeks, the memories of it trickling through his head like it’s a sieve, retaining nothing but vague ideas that could be reality but could also be the opposite.

Richie is cooking. He’s cooking and he’s driving Eddie _crazy_ with it; he feels like he’s insane. He stands behind him, watching the muscles across his back tense and contract as he moves, observing the tendons along his arms that flex mouthwateringly, the cord that quivers in his throat, and he breaks.

“Richie,” he says. Too faintly, even to his own ears.

Nothing.

He inhales deeply, finding nothing stabilising in it. “Rich.” He tries again, firmer.

That does it, at least.

Richie turns, eyes circular with surprise when he sees Eddie standing so close. He pauses in the action of prepping the vegetables. “Eds! Shit, how long have you been standing there? Give a guy some warning--”

“Shut up.” Eddie interrupts him impatiently. He swallows down the last bit of valor that he has, and he looks him straight in his stupid, gorgeous eyes, framed with lenses that are still too big, and he falls that little bit further. “I love you.”

He hears Richie’s throat click; notes the luminosity of his eyes that he somehow mistakes for hope because he’s stupid, stupid, stupid. It lasts only for a split second, before Richie is clearing his throat, gaze darting away, “Uh. Yeah, Eds. I love you too.”

Eddie feels his heart soar with it -- and then it drops, because that’s not what he meant, and Richie doesn’t know what he meant. It takes more guts to say it the second time, and he almost doesn’t. He almost takes Richie’s words for what they are, putting a pin in the conversation, but he knows that he can’t. Even if nothing comes of this, he needs to start telling his truth; no expectations, heart bared in readiness for whatever it may suffer as a result.

“No, you don’t understand me.” His mouth is parched. He clears his throat, though it does little in the way of assistance. “I love you, Rich. Not like -- not like I love Bill or Bev or any of them. Nothing like that. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone.” This confession feels holy; he can’t stop now that it’s out there, doesn’t dare to look for a reaction from Richie. “Like I want to -- to fucking hold your hand, or something, you know? I want to hold your hand and I want to let everyone _see_ me hold your hand, and that’s -- that’s scary. Isn’t that so fucking scary to you?” It’s not… this isn’t what he intended. It’s a mess of words that mean nothing, stringing them together like either of them can make sense of it. 

He stops for a second, ducking his head and catching his breath, tangling his fingers together in front of him so that he doesn’t do something foolish instead. “I think maybe I always wanted it, I just didn’t know it yet. Like -- shit, you’re the entire reason I even realised I was gay, so maybe I’m just a fucking idiot, I don’t know -- I don’t know why it’s taken me this long, but I -- I love you. I know that I love you.”

He’s worked up; his entire body feels like it’s vibrating with this restless energy that has been summoned from nowhere, his torso heaving as he finally stops with enough semblance of mind to start taking in some oxygen again, something his dizzying head should be grateful for, he hopes.

And Richie -- Richie hasn’t said anything.

Eddie steals a glance upwards, heart already beating a dejected pace against his rib cage, like it knows that this isn’t going to be the ending it wants.

Richie looks _staggered_. 

Somewhere within that jumble of a confession, he’s fallen back against the kitchen counter, arms stretched out behind him like they’re the only thing holding him up, and Eddie thinks they actually might be. There’s something agonising about his expression; it’s not what Eddie expects. He takes a slow, short step towards him.

“Rich?”

“Well, shit,” is the first thing Richie says; tone high and strangled. Eddie watches as he raises one hand, noting as it trembles, and pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Definitely warn a guy next time.”

Eddie is confused for a moment, and his mind flickers back to the words Richie was saying before he was so rudely interrupted. He sees the connection. It doesn’t offer him much in the way of a response. If anything, it seems like a joke. Like maybe that’s what all of this is to Richie which -- of fucking course it is. He should have known how this would end. His shoulders tense and he steps back once more, fists curling at his sides with the rejection that feels -- so much worse than anything he could have prepared himself for.

“Right,” he nods shortly. “Right, that’s. It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting anything --”

“Eds --”

“-- shit. I don’t fucking know. I just thought that you should know, but--”

“Eddie.”

“-- we can forget about this? And don’t -- don’t fucking laugh at me, Richie, I swear to God --”

“What -- why the hell would I laugh?” Richie sounds exasperated, and there actually something akin to a laugh tumbling from his lips, but it’s messy and haphazard. He shakes his head disbelievingly. “I don’t want to forget about it.” He sounds like that is the farthest thing from his mind. “Can I speak? Can I do that now?” His hands are thrown up. “You might want to hear what I have to say.”

Eddie scowls, folding his arms across his chest, but he keeps his mouth shut. It’s not like he has anything else to say himself after that frankly humiliating display of affection, the likes of which he will never be engaging in again, because it’s -- he feels like shit, Jesus. He’s never cared this much before. The divorce was fucking nothing compared to this.

This? This has the power to destroy him.

He doesn’t notice Richie stepping into his space until he’s already there; so close and practically towering over him. 

“I’ve loved you since we were thirteen, Eds, my love, so if you think you’re getting out of this that easily, you’ve got another thing coming.” He says, and for a moment, Eddie actually thinks that he might be _mocking_ him; it’s a chilling feeling that evaporates almost as soon as he looks into Richie’s eyes (his _damp_ eyes, shit), and sees nothing but raw truth in the stars there. “I loved you when you still thought you had asthma and you made us look for hours when you lost your inhaler, and I loved you when you were in the hospital looking like death warmed up, and I loved you when I asked you to come here -- which was the best worst decision of my life, Eds, I hope you know this -- and,” he pauses, eyes searching for something in Eddie’s face, his jaw tensing and releasing. “And of course I love you now, too.”

Holy fuck.

There is something so potently yearning in Richie’s gaze; it sweeps over Eddie like a tsunami, bringing with it enough energy to sweep him off his feet. 

Eddie is so grateful that Richie is _right there_ , as he feels as though he might actually pass out, he’s that lightheaded. Now that -- that would be mortifying. He just manages to hold onto the remaining bit of pride that he has left, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t need it to live like he needs this. His hands reach out for Richie, finding purchase on his robust arms and he uses Richie’s strength to keep him upright. He’s completely dazed with it, Richie’s ‘I love you’ on loop in his ears, and it’s nothing compared with the sheer adoration that his whole face is stained with; the affection that lives in his laughter lines and delineates itself to Eddie like he’s the only one intended to bear witness to this. 

“Don’t you dare cry,” he cautions, despite the fact that his own voice is thick with tears too. “You idiot, I love you…” it falls out unbidden this time, saturated in reverence. 

With unsteady hands, he moves his grip from Richie’s arms to his face, tugging until Richie gets the idea, leaning down so that their lips might meet for the first time.

It’s like a switch has been flipped. 

There’s nothing chaste about it; it’s Eddie, stumbling forward and pushing Richie back against the first hard surface that he finds. It’s their noses bumping two, three times until they tilt their heads and find the right angle. It’s the click of teeth against his own that makes him wince but he doesn’t dare pull back, fingertips pressing into the line of Richie’s jaw as they finally get it right. He means for it to be something innocent to begin with -- he has no grand ideas of anything more than that, has barely even considered anything past the initial confession, let alone getting to this stage that he has not let himself imagine for fear of the worst happening.

His body takes over his mind, and he’s sliding his tongue against Richie’s at the first opportunity; as soon as Richie’s lips fall open against his own, he takes it as an invitation. It’s like a hunger awakens within him that he didn’t know existed until now; and it _craves_. Eddie’s hands roam over Richie’s face, across his jaw, his cheekbones, down past his throat, and it takes Richie more than a few seconds to catch up, apparently caught off guard by this onslaught.

When he does, though, Eddie more or less loses his goddamn mind.

Large hands curve around his waist hesitantly at first, before they’re grasping at him with fervored determination, and he moans at the feeling; delirious with the fact that they’re Richie’s hands, that they’re so fucking big, and he has to break the kiss off for a few seconds just to look down at his waist. To see those thick fingers splayed across him like that, on top of his shirt and not even touching his skin -- and Jesus _fuck_ , does he want them on his skin. He dives back in, hands around the back of Richie’s neck, fingers meeting where they rest upon him as he rejoins their lips. Richie’s teeth catch on his lower lip, and it might be an accident, but Eddie releases a moan so loud that it pulls an answering sound from Richie. The slick slide of their lips sounds filthy in the quiet of the kitchen, and Eddie wants more, pushing back, back, back, until Richie’s spinning them around.

He doesn’t have time to think or gather himself; Richie’s hands on his hips slide down to the back of his thighs and then he’s lifting him up and onto the precipice of the counter in a display of strength that leaves Eddie reeling. He feels like his skin is burning where Richie’s touching him; like if he looks down he’ll see red marks in the shape of fingertips unique to Richie, evidencing everywhere that his hands have been, and he shudders with the sudden white hot desire he has for that vision to be real. 

There’s Richie between his legs, his hands sliding along Eddie’s waist and his legs maddeningly; there’s nothing but their lips moving against one another, nothing but teeth tugging at lips; there’s nothing but Eddie shoving one hand in Richie’s hair and tugging, the other snaking over his broad shoulder.

Eddie links his ankles unthinkingly around Richie’s waist and it brings their bodies flush, suddenly. There’s no getting away from the fact, then, that they’re both at least half-hard. He groans as he feels the shock of the thick, hard line of Richie against him, like nothing he’s ever experienced before, and that -- it jolts some sort of sense into him finally.

“Wait,” he breathes heavily against Richie’s lips, groaning as Richie chases his lips, letting him catch them for a moment, before he’s arching back again. “Rich, wait.”

Richie does pull back then; goes to take a step away, too, but Eddie’s legs are still crossed and trapping him. “Sorry.” Richie says automatically.

His face is flushed crimson and his lip is swollen with faint bruising, wet and thick and Eddie’s eyes zero in on that. _I did that_ , he thinks, and then he shakes his head minutely, trying to pull himself back to his senses. “No. No ‘sorry’s’.” He swallows thickly. “Don’t fucking apologise for this. Like, ever.”

“Okay,” Richie agrees around a laugh. He’s breathing just as heavily, but it seems to be leveling out now. He still has his hands on Eddie’s hips, fingers just tucked under the hem of his shirt, rubbing infuriating circles into his skin. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m definitely not sorry.”

Finally, Eddie lets his legs fall back down. His cheeks are ablaze, he knows, and it’s probably travelling all the way down his chest, still rising and falling with his breaths. “That was --” He stops, suddenly aware of how _hard_ he is and how exposed he is like this. He tucks his shoulders forward, as though it’ll help. “Um. A lot.”

“We should stop.” Richie agrees quickly, stepping away; he must see something sink in Eddie’s face, because he’s immediately back, fingers dancing across his cheekbones, delicate like he isn’t sure he can. “For now, I mean -- I think we’re both a little, uh. Overexcited.”

Eddie grimaces at that, shifting uncomfortably, and resolutely not looking down at his lap. He’s sure his desire is all too evident in the pants he has on. “Yeah. But we can -- we can try this?” He says uncertainly; hopefully. “I want…” he feels stupid with it. Has to wonder how lovesick he looks right now (has to wonder still if he cares). “I want to try _us_. We can take it slow.”

“Slow.” Richie repeats, nodding a little dumbly. Then he breaks into a smile that’s incredibly goofy, and it’s jarring -- how he goes from someone so insanely _hot_ to Eddie, to just the idiot he’s in love with (shit, _he’s in love with_ ), in a matter of minutes. “That was enough jerk off material for a _month_ , we’re golden.” He ducks out of the way of the kick Eddie aims his way, face moulding into something far gentler. “Of course I want this. Whatever you want, Eds.”

Even with the confessions, this small admission loosens something in Eddie’s chest. Like the final piece of the puzzle sliding into place. His gaze wanders over the dips and planes of Richie’s face, even now steeped in devotion, and he can barely catch his own breath. He feels desperate with it, heart afflicted with a deeply aching desire, but soothed by the fact that maybe this is something they can have. That this is something that both of them _want_ ; it’s crazy. Is it supposed to be this easy?

Yeah, he thinks, as Richie looks openly back at him, vulnerability evident in the moment. Yeah, maybe it is supposed to be this easy: they’ve taken long enough to get here. Maybe this is just what they deserve now, finally.

Scooting himself off the kitchen counter, he adjusts himself not so discreetly, and then looks over at the stove. “I think your chicken is burning.” The grin he wears is serrated with wickedness as he pats Richie on the back, letting his touch linger. He laughs when Richie swears and immediately runs to turn the heat off.

He uses the distraction to head out, deliberating between taking a cold shower or jerking off or both, though he blushes even now at the thought. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn't do!” Richie calls after him, likes he’s a goddamn mind reader or something. Then, when Eddie’s halfway up the stairs, he shouts, “Sweetheart… how am I going to break this to your mother?”

  
  


*

It becomes quickly apparent that neither of them quite know the meaning of the word _slow_. 

Richie feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind.

At first, it’s manageable. It’s everything he would have expected from this, if he’d ever let himself even for one second imagine it -- he feels like he’s floating through life for at least a week after the incredibly dramatic confessionals that had taken place in the kitchen; waking up the morning after worried that all of that was just a fever dream, showing him his deepest desires only to rip it straight from his grasp upon awakening. But it isn’t -- it is as real as he is, something he can only be sure of when he ventures downstairs and is immediately greeted by a blushing Eddie pressing lips to his cheek in something so beautifully innocent that Richie thinks he might actually collapse right then and there. From a _cheek kiss_.

It’s not like much changes, really, but the things that do change are salient. The touching. Now that he knows that he can, that he has permission, that he isn’t going to be faced with a disgusted, vexed Eddie if he touches, it takes everything in him _not_ to touch. Thankfully, Eddie doesn’t make him. He accepts it willingly, sometimes even instigating it. Never anything too conspicuous; a brush of the backs of their hands when they walk close enough together that they could entwine their fingers if they so wished to do so; Eddie, crooking his leg around Richie’s under the dinner table as they eat, the rosy circles dashing his cheeks the only hint of something else going on; the way Richie rests his hand carefully on Eddie’s knee when they’re sat watching television, suddenly unable to focus on anything other than how engulfing his grip is.

It’s all very sweet, and Richie would willingly drown in the way it makes him feel forever. Nothing so chaste has ever set him alight like this before; he feels weightless with it, each new touch unmooring him bit by bit.

They don’t discuss what this is in any real sense of that, not in the first few weeks, but Richie doesn’t think it matters. Nothing about them is casual. He has no doubt in his mind -- even without it being said -- that this is exclusively them; navigating this new trajectory together now that their truth is out there. It’s new; delicate enough that they mutually agree to keep it between them for now (though Richie knows that this is something he’ll pay for eventually, when Bev finds out he didn’t tell her _immediately_ after it happened, but he’d rather face her wrath than that of Eddie’s). But Richie isn’t worried. It makes him think maybe he _should_ be. Maybe he should be careful with this, because he knows what this means to him -- know that now he has it, losing it would be obliterating for him.

He has no reason to believe that he will lose it, though.

Eddie _loves_ him. He loves him. He loves Richie despite knowing every dark thing about him; despite knowing how fucked up he’s been for so long, what a mess he’s made of so many different aspects of his life, those parts of his personality that he’s workshopped and sliced up so many times over the years that he isn’t quite sure what was originally him and what’s come after. He knows all of this and none of it matters.

It’s pretty fucking unbelieveable to him that after forty one years of rotten luck, it’s like the world has finally caught up to the fact that it owes him something for the clown.

So, it’s good. 

It’s better than good. It’s great.

It’s not _slow_.

That goes out of the window approximately seventy six hours into their new arrangement (not that Richie’s, like, counting or anything, but yes, he does know pretty much what time it was that Eddie told him _he loved him_ , and no he’ll never forget it, _no further questions your honor_ ). 

They go from sitting comfortably beside the sofa to making out in a split second; he really has no idea how it happens. 

One minute he’s watching some trash reality tv show on Netflix, and the next he has a lapful of warm, pliant Eddie, whose lips are on his almost instantly. He’s caught off guard but not enough so to completely forget himself; hands coming up to frame Eddie’s hips where his legs are straddling Richie’s own, grip getting tighter as Eddie nips and sucks at his lower lip like his life depends on it. He’s got one hand at the nape of Richie’s neck, fingers just teasing the skin there enough that it’s sensitive, sending a shiver down his spine.

They’ve kissed a lot in the few days since, but nothing has come close to the kiss that first night, each of them treading as carefully around this as they can, but this -- nothing about this is careful. Eddie’s grinding down against him and Richie can already feel the thickness of him stretching against the sleep shorts he has on, and it’s dizzying. He drops his hands to Eddie’s thighs, fingers flexing in the strained muscles there and Eddie pulls back just to moan, low and wanton. Slick lips trail wet kisses along the blade of Richie’s jaw, and he has to grit his teeth as his own hips buck up responsively, tearing something guttural from each of them when their clothed dicks come into contact.

Eddie doesn’t stop, is the thing. His hips begin a slow dance that’s getting increasingly quicker, hand tangling in Richie’s hair so that he can tug his head back sharply and get better access to the cords of Richie’s throat, and Richie --

Richie brings a hand to Eddie’s chest, gently pushing until he gets the message and pulls back, almost on his haunches. He looks manic with it; pink high on his cheekbones and chest rising with the effort of his breaths, and it takes Richie a herculean amount of effort not to just say fuck it and bring him closer.

“Rich?” Eddie asks. His hands have dropped to Richie’s chest, where his heart is beating in a frenzied fashion, and God, he hopes Eddie can’t feel that.

Then he thinks it’s a moot point, because he can definitely feel his _dick_ , and maybe that’s worse.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this,” Richie winces, “But I’m about to blow in my pants, so maybe we should cool off.” 

He expects Eddie to climb off of his lap instantaneously, if he’s being honest, but there’s none of that. There’s just this: Eddie peering at him with a thoughtful expression on his face, that should be almost laughable in the situation, but still manages to send a shudder wracking through Richie’s torso instead.

“I want to carry on,” He says, and it goes straight to Richie’s dick, which throbs almost painfully in his pants. 

Eddie’s continuing, half babbling, “Rich, I want, I want to see it, come on, touch me.” 

And any resolve that Richie might have had some crashing down in a flash. He’s reaching to pull Eddie back in before he can let himself worry about whether this is a bad decision; it’s not, he’s sure it’s not. Even more sure of this when Eddie’s kissing him again, with more fervor than before, lips catching over and over again.

It’s a few (good, glorious) minutes of grinding and kissing, but then Eddie’s hand is curling around Richie’s wrist, and he’s placing Richie’s hand low on his stomach, and Richie thinks _oh_ , because Eddie had said _touch me_ , hadn’t he?

He’s so hard now and Eddie is pressing down into his lap like he has no control over it. The thought that maybe he doesn’t goes to Richie’s head immediately, making him dazed with the idea that Eddie is this turned on because of _him_. He drags his fingers along the top of Eddie’s shorts, reveling in the way his abdominal muscles contract at the touch, and he wants to touch, he wants it so much; he’s wanted this for so long, and Eddie’s whining keenly in his ear, like he could go off at any second.

Richie slips his hand down under the waistband, getting his hand around Eddie’s silken cock quickly, breath punching out of him at the way it jumps at the first contact.

“Oh, fuck.” Eddie grunts above him. His hips move jerkily into Richie’s fist and he drops his head to Richie’s shoulder like he can’t hold himself up anymore, and Richie has barely even touched him. 

He needs to remedy that, he thinks distantly. He reinforces his hold on Eddie, his free arm curving around his lower back to provide some stability, considering they’re doing this on the fucking couch like they’re teenagers. He shoves Eddie’s shorts down so that he can _see_ him, moaning at the first sight of his sturdy digits around the pretty pink jut of his cock, and he wants to tease. He wants to go slow; he tries. It lasts for a few minutes at most, touching Eddie the way he knows he likes it himself, thumbing at the thick vein that runs all the way up the shaft to the head, palming over the sensitive tip of him.

He’s so _wet_ it makes it easy. He’s transfixed on the smooth glide of his dick through the circle of his fist, the backing track of the increasingly more frantic sounds that Eddie releases making it all the better. Eddie is practically fucking into his hand now, and Richie catches the way the muscles in his thighs contract with the motion, feels himself throb at the sight of it where he’d all but forgotten that yeah, shit, he’s hard as rocks too.

“Rich, Richie -- fuck, so good --” Eddie’s a talker, which shouldn’t surprise him. It’s hot, so hot, Richie isn’t sure whether he’s going to be able to hold off on coming in his pants. He’d meant it as a joke but fuck, if it was ever going to happen, this is the moment.

He drags his gaze up to Eddie’s face, not once faltering in his movements. He feels gutted at what he finds there -- the brown of his eyes almost completely eradicated with blown pupils; the slack of his jaw that Richie has no choice but to surge up to bite, softly, almost losing it at the broken sound it pulls from Eddie’s throat.

“Come on, sweetheart, you’re so good -- you look amazing like this.” Richie’s voice is ardent, gruff when it leaves his mouth, but it’s worth it.

Eddie is _responsive._ His back bows on a sob that sounds painful, fingers still in Richie’s hair tightening so much that it prickles, and then he’s spilling over into Richie’s fist, hot and pulsing with the effort. His shoulders curve forward protectively as he comes with something that’s halfway between Richie’s name and a moan on his lips, and Richie’s blood sings with it.

The ensuing quiet is almost deafening, and for a moment Richie feels himself begin to panic when Eddie doesn’t say anything. But then he’s lifting his head tiredly, looking absolutely wrecked with it, a flush spreading over every piece of skin that Richie can see (considering they’re still fully clothed, Jesus, he can’t believe this is happening at all, let alone like this).

Eddie looks like he’s about to say something and changes his mind halfway through, eyes dropping to Richie’s lap where his girth is still straining against his pants. “You’re still hard.”

“Just about.” Richie swallows, hands fluttering around Eddie’s waist. “It was a close call.”

“I wanna watch,” Eddie says like he isn’t even listening. “Can you--?”

Richie gets it, then -- that Eddie wants him to touch himself, and -- hell, he’s never been much for exhibitionism, but he thinks he’d do whatever the fuck Eddie wants of him in this moment (who is he kidding; he’ll do whatever Eddie wants of him always). It’s Eddie who tugs at his belt buckle with unsteady hands before he’s even finished asking for what he wants, and then he’s guiding Richie’s hand into his own trousers and it’s so hot. Hotter still when Richie gets a grip of himself and realises that he still has Eddie’s cum dripping between his fingers; the grunt that leaves him is painfully deep, stomach clenching at the mere thought of it.

“This is going to be over really quick.” He warns, panting as he jerks himself without much of a rhythm, not bothering to drag it out. He catches the way Eddie gulps as he swallows, watching it travel down his throat. 

It’s too much -- being watched like this, with something so warm in Eddie’s eyes, like he _enjoys_ this, like Richie looks good like this. He’s pretty sure he looks like a man deranged, and he tilts his head against the back of the sofa, squeezing his eyes shut.

A biting kiss is sucked into the spot just beneath his ear, making his eyes fly open, and Eddie is right there. He keeps his face pressed into Richie’s neck, trailing his hand down Richie’s stomach tentatively; agonizingly slow. 

The second he wraps his hand around Richie’s, both of them gripping tightly around his cock, he knows that he’s gone. “Oh my god -- Eddie, shit --” He manages to choke out, toes curling against the floor as his orgasm is wrenched from him by their joined hands; all but collapsing back down against the sofa, chest heaving with the effects of it.

He’s not sure he’s ever come that hard from what was effectively self masturbation before, and he thinks he says as much, because Eddie’s pulling a face, wiping his messy hand down the front of Richie’s t-shirt. Richie can’t bring himself to care, just beaming sloppily at him instead, enough so that Eddie’s tonguing at the inside of his cheek and flushing under the attention.

“What?” he bites.

Richie loves him. “The couch? Didn’t see that coming.”

“Shut up.” Eddie mumbles, and Richie catches his hand, pressing a kiss to his open palm because he feels like it, because he’s on a high and he can do whatever he wants now, apparently. It does something remarkably interesting to Eddie’s breath, and to the quick twist of his lips, and then Eddie is climbing off of him, grimacing. “I’m going to shower.”

“What, you can’t handle getting a little dirty?” Richie grins at him. He knows damn well Eddie can handle getting a little dirty; if he didn’t know it before Derry, he does now.

Eddie glowers at him, already slinking down the hallway.

Is it normal to miss him already? Because Richie is pretty sure he does. It’s pathetic. It’s wonderful.

He shifts, pulling a face at the stickiness in his own pants, and then almost trips over his own feet in his haste to get up when he hears Eddie calling, “Are you going to join me or what, dickhead?”

Slow is definitely not what they do.

It continues like this for weeks; Richie feels like they really are teenagers again with the amount they get each other off. A dirty grind against the bedroom wall; Eddie’s hands sneaking into his pants when they’re lying on the couch curled up in one another; Richie dropping to his knees in the shower to suck Eddie off with the water pouring down onto his back. 

It’s great for his spirit and absolutely terrible for his body. He finds himself hoping it’s not just some honeymoon period that will pass as soon as Eddie’s got this out of his system or something; like he’ll realise that it’s not Richie he wants, but what he can get from this. He knows it’s not. He knows that’s just his pessimistic mind trying to bring him down again, because they _love_ each other (he’ll say it as much as he pleases) -- that’s something that doesn’t go away. He should know.

It goes like this: a few weeks later and Eddie is stretched out naked on Richie’s bed, hands fisting into the fresh linen beneath him, Richie bent between his spreadeagled legs, taking him down to the root. He loves it when they do this -- has always had something of an oral fixation, he knows, loves it when his mouth is full, but it’s never been as good as it is with Eddie. Eddie responds so beautifully to it. Richie could tease him for hours, licking a stripe down from his navel, biting kisses into the tender meat of his thighs, sucking lovebites into his hips where nobody else can see them, listening to Eddie becoming increasingly more impatient for it above him with each and every touch of his lips, his fingertips, his tongue.

The only downside to this is that he can’t see Eddie so much. He can’t see the tension that coils around his muscles like he’s ready to spring; can’t see the way he tosses his head back when Richie does something particular with the flat of his tongue curved around the head of his cock; can’t see how open his face is like this, how vulnerable he gets. Richie catches glimpses, when he strains his eyes upwards, notes the tendons in Eddie’s neck standing to attention. He feels the way he pushes down on the bed with the flat of his feet, his legs bowed and fingers blanched white with the rigidity of the hold he has on the sheets.

He can feel him, though, and that’s enough. He has his hands blanketing Eddie’s hips, keeping him pinned to the bed tormentingly, even though he doesn’t mind it when Eddie fucks up into his mouth in the slightest. The head of his cock drags across his soft palate as he pulls off slowly, only to swallow him back down at speed, listening to the dry sob that forces its way from Eddie’s throat as he does so. 

Eddie’s thighs are just barely trembling by the time Richie’s touching a slicked up finger to his entrance; and fuck, if Eddie isn’t just _so sensitive_ to this in particular, already chanting out Richie’s name like a prayer, tossing in a few pleading ‘please’s for good measure, and Richie is too weak to deny him for long. He keeps up a torturously pace, letting Eddie fall from his mouth so that he can push in another, stretching into the heat of his body. He curls the two inwards for long moments, not quite giving Eddie what he needs, not until he’s practically reduced to begging for it.

“Richie,” he whines high in his throat, and Richie looks up to see him arching against the bed. Even with his arousal evident jutting up from his groin, he manages to level Richie with a glare; the effect of which is only ruined by the breathlessness of his requests, “Come on, please...”

“What do you want?” Richie pushes it, not relaxing the pace of his fingers. “You gotta tell me.”

“For fucks sake, Rich,” he’s still whining, hips pushing down into Richie’s hands, trying to up the pace himself. “Another one, come on.”

It’s good enough. He’s slathering more lube onto his fingers, always so careful, before he’s fucking into Eddie with three fingers and Eddie grabs at his own hair like it’s too much. It’s not. They know this by now, at least.

He looks so good like this, Richie could do this for hours, just to drink in the sight of him. The way he fucks back onto his hand like he can’t get enough of it. He bends to suck the tip of Eddie’s dick into his mouth, using his free hand to palm down against himself, resisting the urge to rub off against the bed while he’s doing this (but he could, he could get off like this and he wouldn’t regret it one bit).

The muscles all along Eddie’s legs, from thighs to calves, are practically vibrating with the force of his pleasure now, and Richie knows he's close. He picks up the pace with his mouth, crooking his fingers just right; rewarded for it with the way Eddie all but shoots up the bed, his body tensing at the first unexpected stroke against that bundle of nerves inside. Richie’s ready for it, so ready to help him get there, but then Eddie is pushing weakly at his shoulder.

“Rich, Rich, stop, I’m going to fucking come.”

Richie pulls off to raise a brow at him, grin dopily amused. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point here?”

“Oh my god, shut up.” Eddie huffs, turning crimson with it, and then he lowers his voice. It’s almost husky and Richie swallows when it goes to his dick. “I don’t wanna come like this. Not tonight.”

“Okay?” Richie says slowly. He’s all but stopped pressing into Eddie with his fingers now, a little confused. “Before I get offended about my apparently subpar bj skills,” he grins as Eddie rolls his eyes. “What do you mean?”

And, that’s interesting, because Eddie’s gaze is flickering everywhere, from Richie’s face, to the ceiling, to the wall, and then he seems to find _something_ somewhere, because he says, “I want you to fuck me.”

Fuck. If Richie’s dick had been waning at all with the shift in mood, it isn’t now. He feels his gaze widen and stick, breath hitching. “That -- you want that now?”

“No, tomorrow.” Eddie scowls at him. “Yes fucking _now_ , Richie.”

“Okay, shit, well -- shoot me for checking, I guess,” Richie doesn’t really feel like this is actually happening, but it _is_ . Eddie is still hot and tight around him, and he’s shifting uncomfortably on the bed, and _fuck_ , he wants this. “Fuck yeah, no, you don’t have to ask twice.”

He’s an idiot, but Eddie smiles at him for it; small and sweet and adoring. That’s more damning than the fact that he’s just asked Richie to fuck him, honestly. It makes something swoop low in the pit of Richie’s stomach, joining the fire already blazing there, and he’s pressing a kiss into Eddie’s head as an apology when he has to remove his fingers to scramble up the bed and tug the bedside drawer open.

“Let me.” Eddie sees the silver foil wrapper, reaching for it with shaky fingers, but looking as determined as ever. He’s thin-lipped and concentrating when he rolls the condom down over the length of Richie’s dick, which pulses at even the most methodical of touches like this. Richie shudders, squeezing his own fingers around the base in an attempt to hold back. He is madly endeared to Eddie, who is carefully teasing with the action, swooping in to kiss just beneath his ear because he can.

Richie is generous with the lube always, but especially now. He slides his fingers back in easily enough, Eddie already stretched and moaning as the feeling of fullness returns. This -- this is enough, but Richie will give Eddie whatever he wants, and he’s moving his hand away, positioning himself between Eddie’s legs.

He hesitates though. Swallows as he fixes his eyes on Eddie’s face, the jut of his jaw, the red bruising under his lip from excessive amounts of kissing. “If you want to stop--”

“Richie, I swear to God.” Eddie’s eyes are squeezed shut. Richie is pretty sure he’s just trying to contain himself before he kicks out at Richie for asking, but he doesn’t care so much. He has to. “If you don’t just fucking --” He stops and takes a breath. When his eyes open again, they’re softer. “I love you, dumbass. Now please, _please_ fuck me.”

If the pleads aren’t just as pretty falling from his pink lips as the confession of love, Richie’ll be damned.

He runs his hands across down Eddie’s sides, over his waist, before they settle on his hips, and he pushes forward slowly, guiding himself in the smallest amount; just barely breaching the rim. Already he knows that it’s going to be too much and too little all at the same time. He stops instantly at the way Eddie tenses up beneath him, narrow chest rising and falling with the effort of his breaths, the tendons in his arms flexing with his grip on the sheets. His fingers must be cramping up at this stage, Richie thinks a bit deliriously, focusing on anything but the impossibly warm heat around him, because he needs to be _still_. He waits until Eddie gives him the go ahead, releasing his grip to tap on Richie’s shoulder frantically, and then he eases in in small increments, watching and feeling for the tells of Eddie’s body until he’s fully seated after what feels like a lifetime; his hips flush with Eddie’s ass. It’s a tight fit. The grip around him is like a vice, and for a moment it’s all Richie can focus on, but he’s quick to force himself back to the moment; jaw clenched as he looks to Eddie.

“Ed? Eddie?” Richie moves his palms against Eddie’s thighs, eyes searching his face. God, he’s maddeningly tight around him, and Richie could lose his mind like this -- wants to --, using all his strength to keep his hips still, but Eddie is his first thought, always. He feels sweat bead along his temple with the effort of not moving, his own body taut with anticipation. 

“Oh, God,” Eddie groans out, his face screwed up. For a second Richie worries that he’s in pain, but then Eddie is pawing at his biceps, anchoring his legs around Richie’s waist; pushing into the feeling slightly. “God, what the fuck, why are you this big--”

It startles a laugh out of Richie. “You’ve seen my dick before, sweetheart.”

“That’s different. That’s so fucking different.” Eddie whines at him, voice strained with it, and then he shifts his hips again, throat all but convulsing with a moan that dies there as he does. “I thought you said you were going to fuck me?”

God. He’s unnervingly confident for a man whose hair is stuck to his forehead with perspiration, for a man whose thighs are shaking around Richie’s waist, for a man whose voice is cracking on every other word. Richie loves him so much.

He also thinks this will be over embarrassingly quickly; for both of them, if the red, swollen head of Eddie’s cock is anything to go by.

Eddie’s quads are straining with the pressure already, the first few slow fucks of Richie’s hips drawing low moans from him on each press. Richie bends down to attach his teeth to the slack of Eddie’s jaw as he pulls back and thrusts in deeper, delighting in the way that Eddie’s whole body seems to shake with it. He feels unbalanced in the moment, the slow pace punishing for both of them, but he doesn’t want to fuck this up, doesn’t want to make the wrong move.

Eddie’s hands get buried in Richie’s head; his torso arches upwards into Richie’s, both slicked with sweat, the roughness of the hairs on Richie’s chest dragging over Eddie’s skin and eliciting a sound that’s raw with arousal. The heat in Richie’s belly is only increasing by the second, and he shifts slightly, reaches around to grab at Eddie’s ass, tilting his hips upward and it’s golden. Precisely the right angle for him to drive in deep; hitting that spot within him head on suddenly. Eddie comes alive with it, fingers scrabbling across the surface of Richie’s generous shoulders, like he’s trying to push him away and pull him closer in the same motion.

“Fuck, fuck,” He keens highly in the back of his throat, reaching up to tug sharply at his own hair once more. The effect is devastating; his disheveled state of being driving Richie crazy.

Richie’s fingertips are pressing bruise-like into the dimples that find their home upon Eddie’s lower back, and he can’t help but pick up the pace, knowing that he’s got it right now. Arching down and forward, he kisses at the pink creeping all across Eddie’s face; tongue flicking out to taste the salty sweat on his skin, and Eddie shivers with it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back to look Eddie in the face; to see the way his jaw looks almost unhinged, the way his eyes are unfocused, sable black in their desire. “You feel so good, sweetheart, so good. You’re incredible. Jesus, how are you real--” He’d be embarrassed by the words spilling from his mouth like holy secrets, but he isn’t, because he loves him. He can’t believe that he gets to do this; that Eddie wants him like this. 

He wants to get closer so there’s nothing separating them. He wants to crawl out of his own skin and into Eddie’s. Stay like this forever; this moment feels sacred, and he doesn’t want to ruin that, doesn’t want to say anything to break the moment.

Eddie’s getting louder with it, though. He’s rocking back against Richie fervently, like he wants to get closer and deeper too, and Richie wraps his hands around the hard jut of his cock in an instant. He never tires of watching this, the push of him through his fist, but he’s focusing entirely on Eddie’s face right now. He looks completely overwhelmed, like he doesn’t know whether to grind back into Richie’s thrusts, or push upwards with his hips.

“Don’t you dare stop, holy fuck,” he just manages to let out on an exhale. His voice sounds as fucked out as he looks, and his hold on Richie’s shoulders is wounding in a way that sends arousal rocketing through his entire body.

Richie looses a chuckle at his words, but it comes out wheezy and choked. “Wasn’t planning on it, Eds.”

Not that he’s going to be able to hold off for much longer himself. He can already feel the pressure beginning to build, the white hot sparks traveling along the length of his spine like molten gold. But there’s no way that he will be letting go before Eddie gets there first -- he seems like he’s close enough, sharp teeth digging into the swell of his lower lip in a way that isn’t stifling the sounds he’s making in the slightest. They move together with the force of the thrusts, Eddie’s ankles locking him in plus, heels digging into Richie’s lower back like he can somehow push him deeper, despite the fact that they’re joined as much as they could possibly be.

There are hands moving all over Richie’s upper body, as though Eddie can’t quite decide where he wants to settle his touch. He digs blunt crescent moons into the expanse of Richie’s back, slides his hands down to his biceps, his forearms, and then thinks better of it; clasping them behind Richie’s neck and tugging him forward and down in one motion. Richie goes easily with it, letting Eddie lick across his jawline before he brings him in for a kiss, his hands tilting Richie’s face just the way he wants it. He works his tongue into Richie’s mouth filthily, humming around it like he can’t help himself, and Richie is _gone_ with it.

It’s stiflingly hot with warmth rising from their bodies, and _what the hell_ , Richie can hardly believe this. He won’t deny that his sex life has been sparse over the years, but even that which he has engaged in has been nothing like this. Nothing could even come _close_ to this. He feels like an exposed nerve, fire chasing in the wake of each touch of Eddie’s skin against his. It makes him feel constantly on edge the entire time, agonizing in the best way.

Eddie’s cock is velvety and throbbing in his hand, and it doesn’t take long; a few well-timed flicks of his wrist in conjunction with the push and pull of his hips, and Eddie is tensing up beneath him, head thrown backwards with a guttural sound as he coats both of their bellies with his release. Richie groans at the sensation of it hitting his skin, the sudden slip of their stomachs coming together, and he knows he can only hold his own orgasm at bay for a little longer.

It only takes a few more deep, punishing thrusts before he comes biting down on the hard dash of Eddie’s collarbone; tongue soothing the abused area as soon as he is able to regain his senses. There’s an exhausted silence that follows, only filled with the sound of their exertion, panting as they both fight to get their breath back.

“What the fuck was that?”

Eddie’s voice is syrup slow, the words melting into one another. Richie lifts his head enough to catch his stunned expression; not able to resist the urge to smile at the tangle of his hair bunched up in places from his own hands, at the mouth that’s still half open like he really is in a state of shock. His features twist into something of a grimace as Richie pulls out of him to deal with the condom, and he caresses the sides of Eddie’s torso in apology for the discomfort. 

“I think that was the best sex of our life. Or my life, at least.” He adds like an afterthought, and it’s an awful idea, actually, that this might not have been as good for Eddie as it was for him, even though he doesn’t think that that is the case at all.

It’s not, if the way Eddie turns to look at him affectionately when he rolls off and onto the side of the bed with a sigh is anything to go by. 

“Yeah, no shit. That goes without saying.” He still looks dazed with it. Richie gets it. He’s not actually sure that he isn’t having an out of body experience right now.

“I can’t move.” Eddie mumbles. He looks like he means it, or believes it at the very least. “Like, I think my legs are broken.”

And that’s -- well, as dramatic as it is, Richie supposes he can take some pride in that. He’s quick to sling an arm open, invitingly, and Eddie is just as quick to roll forward into it. It’s gross; they’re sweaty and sticky and it’s way too hot, yet he’s still more than happy to cuddle up to Richie like this. He couldn’t love him more.

“I’ll give you a piggyback to the shower,” he says, because yes, he knows that Eddie will be itching for a shower within ten minutes at most. “Don’t worry about it.”

The look Eddie gives him is one of pure warmth. He reaches up with one hand to cup Richie’s jaw, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “I love you.” 

“I know.” Richie’s smiles. He thinks it might actually break his face. “But don’t stop saying it on my account. Daily reminders are useful.”

“You’re an idiot. Fuck, this is disgusting. We need to shower, like, yesterday.”

Richie doesn’t quite give him a piggyback to the shower, but he does hold Eddie’s hand the entire time, refusing to release the entanglement of their fingers even when it means Eddie has to bite the lid off of the shampoo and spends at least fifty per cent of the time under the water glowering at him for it.

He thinks that if he could hold Eddie’s hand for the rest of his life and have him look at him in this way the entire time, he would die the happiest man in the world.

*

It’s an autumnal sun that sneaks in through the gaps in the curtains, taking its time to fill the room with light. Eddie blinks awake with it, squinting at the early morning disorientation, rolling himself over as far as he can go with the heavy comfort of an arm wrapped securely around his mirror. The alarm clock reads 9:00 am. Saturday, he thinks blearily, and then lets himself relax back against the broad chest that’s pressed along the curve of his back.

“Eds?” Richie’s voice is morning hoarse, just like it always is. It makes Eddie melt instantly, just like it always does.

“Yeah, babe,” he says quietly. “Go back to sleep. It’s still early.”

“Mm,” Richie’s breath hits the back of Eddie’s neck, making him even more pliant. He shivers. “Are you gonna stay too?”

Eddie considers this. These later Saturday mornings are becoming only too frequent for him now, a far cry from the 6:30 start he once adhered to religiously. He’s awake now, and the idea of getting up is somewhere in his mind -- he knows it’s the reasonable choice. 

There’s a lot to do before the losers arrive on their afternoon flights, and there are still so many last minute preparations for Richie’s show tonight. He knows that he’s going to have to spend the entire day keeping his eye trained closely on Richie before he goes out there on the stage; talking him down from the height of panic that he’s anticipating just before the lights go up. They’ve both -- all, really -- been waiting for this day to come around for so long, and Eddie knows that there will undoubtedly be some hitches. That there isn’t going to be anything that he can do in the aftermath that may not be all good, because there will always be jackasses out there who can’t just be happy for someone. All he can do is be here; and he will.

He doesn’t think Richie is awake enough to recognise yet that this is his big day. That, if all goes according to plan, he’ll be coming out in front of hundreds of people, to millions by the next day, and telling jokes about growing up gay in small town Maine as a repressed teen; jokes about his new and current boyfriend, with all the losers (including the said boyfriend) in the front row, cheering him on.

He thinks that they should both get up, really. But he can feel that Richie’s breath has evened back out, like he’s already fallen back to sleep, and he’s too comfortable here in the warmth of Richie’s arms to really care that much.

“Yeah,” he says, mostly to himself. He closes his eyes and sinks further against Richie’s cushioning form behind him. “Of course.”

Mornings are still the best part of Eddie’s day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on twitter [@decdlights](https://twitter.com/decdlights), and also on tumblr [@lndntown](https://lndntown.tumblr.com/), if you fancy following me/chatting to me!
> 
> thank you for reading. all feedback is appreciated!! :)

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on twitter [@decdlights](https://twitter.com/decdlights), and also on tumblr [@lndntown](https://lndntown.tumblr.com/), if you fancy following me/chatting to me!
> 
> thank you for reading. all feedback is appreciated!! :)


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